


in between that and everything

by virgohotspot



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellamy is Clarke's Sponsor/Sober Companion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Pining!Bellamy, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28683126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virgohotspot/pseuds/virgohotspot
Summary: Despite his five year sobriety, Bellamy spends most of his time at bar. He doesn't mean to stumble across Clarke, nor does he intend to become her sober companion and sponsor. But he does, and he's intent on helping her through her alcohol addiction. However, in him helping her, he does not except her to heal him.Or, Bellamy becomes Clarke's sober companion/sponsor. He's not exactly sure what the rules are, but he's pretty sure he's not supposed to fall in love with her.Written for The 100 Writers for BLM Initiative
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 164
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	in between that and everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLifeStruggleIsREAL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeStruggleIsREAL/gifts).



> This is my first completed prompt for The 100 Writer's for BLM Initiative! The prompt was five-year sober Bellamy frequenting at a bar. There, he meets Clarke, who's been drinking through life for the last three years. They become friends, and he has to come to terms with her past in order to help her.
> 
> Please take a look at the tags! This deals with alcoholism and addiction. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_The Dropship_ is busier than Bellamy’s ever seen it on a normal day. He tries to steer clear of the bar on holidays, hates the insane amount of people that drape themselves over one another, alcohol patterning their breaths and the combination of obnoxious laughter and horrible electronic music ringing in his ears. Granted, that’s a bar on a normal night, and if Bellamy really doesn’t want to expose himself to it, he could just stay home. But he’s got friends here, people in much better standing than the people he used to know; so here he is, on New Year’s Eve.

Bellamy reserves himself to the farthest stool on the left, tucked into a corner. He grips his glass, the water that seeps past his lips and travels down his throat cold and icy, keeping him awake and alert as he observes the scene before him. Just as he predicted, drunk people with no boundaries throwing themselves over one another, minutes away from the new year. Bellamy takes another sip of his water, tries to find it refreshing and leans his elbow up against the bar, glaring out at the crowd.

It’s not that he’s envious. Bellamy’s been a stickler for fun pretty much his whole life, but normally, he could care less what other people choose to do with theirs. If he was drunk, he’d probably find these people less irritating – he’d probably find a lot of things less than a bother. But that’s something he’s learned is temporary, and this bar reminds him of the feelings he spent years trying to suppress – anger, irritation, sadness. While they aren’t the best to feel, while he’s sure there ought to be something more enjoyable about life, he likes being able to feel _something_.

“Hey, player,” Bellamy raises his head, glancing across the bar to the bartender. Gina smiles at him. “Enjoying your water with three, precise ice cubes?”

Bellamy smirks, leaning his head against the wall. “Always when you make it. Murphy nearly slipped me a mickey.”

Gina winces, “Sorry. He’s an–”

“Ass?”

“To put it plainly.”

“It’s alright. He doesn’t know.”

“He does know–”

“Doesn’t _really_ know.”

Bellamy doesn’t expect many people to know. It’s his responsibility to check himself, to keep in line with his own boundaries. Granted, there’s people that yearn to make it harder on him. Murphy, for example, is one of those people. Bellamy wishes he could say that the newest bartender meant well, that he just wants him to loosen up, but that would be a lie. Murphy enjoys people being as miserable as him. Bellamy cuts him some slack, if only because he knows exactly what it’s like to want to drag people into your mess.

Gina tilts her head to the side, sighing deeply. “Well, I’ll talk to him. Or maybe I’ll talk to the manager, get him fired. He kind of sucks at his job, anyways.”

Bellamy laughs, flashing a genuine smile at Gina. He glances back at the crowd, everyone rushing to the dancefloor before the DJ can start the countdown. Bellamy looks down at his watch: 11:57pm. Everybody’s antsy and drunk enough to be tumbling over one another, stampeding over to the booth in order to be thrust into the madness. Bellamy sits back, not sure if he’s amused or annoyed. People will trickle out after the countdown is done, or some will stow away in bathrooms – at least eighty five percent of these people will be somewhere, having sex to ring in the New Year.

He turns back over his shoulder to stare at Gina, “When’s your shift done?”

Gina gives him a knowing look. “I’m going home when my shift is done, Bellamy.”

“I could join you. Give you some company,” Bellamy smirks, although he can tell by the look on her face that this isn’t going anywhere.

“Oh, I appreciate that. But I don’t sleep with my friends,” Gina winks.

Bellamy sighs in defeat, but keeps a small smile is on his face. “Alright, alright. Your choice if you want to ring in the New Year alone.”

“Oh, I won’t be alone. I just won’t be with you.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ve survived worse.”

A low chuckle escapes Bellamy’s lips, but he tips his head to Gina in acknowledgement. She grins back at him in a silent goodbye, before striding down the bar to tend to a much more profitable clientele. Bellamy watches her go, thankful there’s no longer a sense of longing. He’s just fucking horny. He and Gina’s nights of trysts are long over – have been for nearly half a decade. But that was when he was just getting sober, thrust into the hardships of recovery head on. He didn’t know how to care for himself, much less be in a relationship.

At the end of the day, he’s just grateful he got a friend out of it. Having a girlfriend that worked at a bar was one thing, but having a friend was another. Bellamy had never been a fan of bars when he was in his worst years, much rather preferred the solace of his drinks at home, but it certainly made Gina uncomfortable. And she was great, and he had liked her, but he couldn’t focus on her needs in accordance with him. So, friends they were.

Bellamy’s friendship with Gina is about the same age as his sobriety is. It helps him keep track, and he’s grateful to have someone like her in his life. Sometimes, she’s the only person he’s got. There’s a mountain of people in his life that no longer speak to him, and even after all his fuck ups with Gina, she still had the courtesy to be his friend.

But damn, he’s still fucking horny. And this bar is crawling with people too fucked out of their minds to fuck him. He’s got some people in his phone he can call, but it’s New Years. Everybody’s out for the night; either with their friends or with their fuckbuddy of a couple hours. He’s shit out of luck for the night. Bellamy sighs deeply, gripping the chill of the glass in his hand and finishing off his water.

Bellamy stands to his feet, brushing off his coat. Reaching into his pocket, he waves over Gina just as he lays down a couple bills by his drink as a tip. He turns, staring out at the sea of drunken partygoers he’s going to have to push through, and dread fills his chest.

“Use the back entrance,” Gina urges.

He swivels back around to face her, just as she counts the tips in her hand. “Thanks, Gina. Happy New Year.”

Bellamy makes his way around the bar, slipping past the eyes he gets from Murphy. He hears the chorus of the crowd burst into the countdown, starting from thirty seconds, and thanks whatever force in the Universe is saving him from having to witness over hundreds of strangers messily mash their faces together. There’s a voice at the back of his mind, telling him he’s way too old for bars, and as a recovering alcoholic, it’s not somewhere he should even consider spending his time. He pushes through the backdoor, into the staff room, nonetheless.

He halts, for a moment. The room, labelled _Storage_ to his left, is one Bellamy knows all to well. Full of bottles of liquor, unused by the public, just in case _The Dropship_ ’s front counter goes short. He swallows thickly, trying to bring some moisture back to his throat. He’s not fucking perfect, he still gets the itch from time to time. But luckily, he’s learned that his pride is something that’s been far greater than him. Bellamy tears his gaze away from the storage room, and strides to the exit, just as the clock strikes midnight and cheers echo behind him.

The polluted city air that greets him assaults his nose, but he prefers it to the stench of alcohol. The dumpster that’s accompanied right beside the back entrance is of no help to his senses, so he turns, with all intentions to stride out of this alleyway and walk back home. Except, instead of the sound of traffic or distant shouts filling his ears, the soft murmur of sobs echoes from down the alley. Bellamy turns, squints out at the darkness at the end of the alleyway. He can’t make out anything but the sobs, that know that he’s focusing, seem to pound in his ear.

For a moment, Bellamy debates turning around. He really does. The sobs sound like they’re coming from an adult, so he’s not worrying about abandoning a lost child out back here. It’s got to be someone that can stand on their own two feet. But unfortunately for him, Bellamy considers himself a good person now. Or at least, it’s something he’s trying to work towards. What kind of good person would he be to walk away when someone’s crying in the darkness of an alleyway at the start of a New Year?

Cautiously, Bellamy takes a step towards the sobs. Each step he takes, they become increasingly louder. He’s not sure what role he’s expecting to play in this mystery person’s misery, but fuck, he’s got to be able to do something. So, when he rounds the corner of the dumpster, spotting a blonde woman with a full bottle of whiskey in between her thighs, sobbing incoherently, he sinks to the ground beside her.

It’s a scene so familiar, that if this woman hadn’t been here, he may have been able to picture himself in this exact setting just a couple years ago. Her head jerks upwards, eyes open in alert, and Bellamy instantly scoots back, putting his hands up in defense. She hugs the bottle of whiskey tighter to her, and he’s not sure if she’s going to down a liter of it or use it as protection against him.

“Hey, sorry,” Bellamy’s quick to explain. “I’m sorry to scare you. I heard you crying, and I thought I’d check up on you–”

“Who asked you to do that?” The woman spits out.

“Nobody. I heard you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You don’t look okay.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is when you’re sitting outside of my friend’s work, sobbing like you’re being fucking murdered.”

“Well, even if I was, that would be none of your damn business.”

Logic seems to be out the window with this one. That could just be how she is, Bellamy presumes. But the bottle of whiskey tucked between her thighs, the dress that lays crooked on her body, her disheveled hair and tear stained face tell a different story; one he’s memorized by now. This woman could just be another drunk partygoer, someone that got a little too carried away on New Year’s Eve. Although, he’s pretty sure that bottle of whiskey is from the storage room, just like he’s certain she doesn’t work here, and that this isn’t someone that’s just _a little too drunk_.

“I’m Bellamy,” he tries. The woman stares at him, bewildered that he’d even consider an introduction was a good idea. “Can I call you an Uber?”

This woman’s face twists into something unreadable; she could punch him, or burst into sobs once more. She takes a shaky breath, and slurs, “I don’t have money for one.”

In all honesty, neither does he. Bellamy gets into the bar for free because of Gina and tap water doesn’t cost a thing. He normally doesn’t even bring his wallet, just tucks his ID into his phone case. But staring at this woman, curled up beside a dumpster on New Year’s Eve, he notes that the bottle of whiskey is nearly drained of its contents. And if someone could have taken mercy on him a lot sooner all those years ago, maybe he wouldn’t have lost as much as he does.

His past doesn’t justify anything he needs to do with this woman. He could leave her right here, she’d probably much prefer that, anyways. But Bellamy stares at her, and his chest tightens, something sickly and nauseating. He locks eyes with her, finds the blue in the darkness of the alley, finds the ability to level himself. She probably needs to get out of here just as much as he does.

“I can walk you,” Bellamy suggests.

“I don’t even know you,” she sneers. “What if you kill me?”

Bellamy chews on his bottom lip. He’s not going to kill her, obviously, but it’s a fair concern. “Do you have a phone?”

The woman furrows her eyebrows together, but nods hesitantly. He extends his hand, palm facing upwards, and he flashes back to his younger days, pre-addiction. This woman’s face doesn’t resemble his sister’s at all, but he feels like the same authoritative figure he did when he used to demand her phone. It brings a pang to his chest, but locking his eyes on the woman before him, he tries to keep a steady gaze.

Surprisingly, she hands him the phone, unlocked. He outstretches his arm, using flash to snap a picture of his face. She squints, but peers at him curiously as Bellamy goes into her contacts. He settles on her most recent contact. Bellamy uploads the photo of himself onto the textbox and adds, _Going home with this guy. His name is Bellamy Blake. If I die, he did it._

Bellamy shows the screen to her. And to his surprise, she laughs. It’s short, barely resembling a giggle, but the brief smile that lifts on her face brings a flutter to his stomach that he hasn’t felt in a while. He finds a smile on his own face, and hands her back the phone.

“This is a horrible picture of you,” the woman judges.

“Thank you,” Bellamy shrugs. “Now, can I walk you home?”

“You did all that for nothing. I live on the other side of town.”

Everything should be a sign to let his woman go out on her own. But, Bellamy’s persistence is both a gift and a curse. So, he finds himself suggesting, to a total stranger, “I live a block away from here. You can stay for the night.”

“N-no,” her slur becomes even more apparent now. She tries to straighten herself out, reach for the bottle of whiskey. “I don’t even know you.”

Bellamy nudges the bottle of whiskey further back. “Well, get to know me. I’m not leaving you here.”

Anger flashes in her eyes. “Why?”

Bellamy’s knees dig into the pavement. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“Cause you probably want someone drunk enough to _fuck you_ –”

“Hey, no. No, I’m sorry,” Bellamy rushes to explain. The woman sinks back against the wall, her red, swollen eyes framing the blue so perfectly, Bellamy feels his throat go dry once more. He coughs, “I guess you just…remind me of me. I was once where you are.”

“Oh, yeah?” She challenges. “And where is that?”

Bellamy’s not sure if he has the words to explain exactly _where_ that is. It’s everywhere; rooted deep into your bones and lifestyle, living in your bloodstream and occupying your mind. You’re not a person when you’re an alcoholic, not to other people and not to yourself. You drink away the problems not to escape reality, but to pretend it doesn’t exist, living without consequences or hardship. But sometimes, like in this instance right here, those two worlds combine – non-existent and real, and the consequence if even more tumultuous.

The goal to feel nothing is not repaired by a couple of drinks. And that first time, when one realizes that those glasses no longer accumulate to the escapism they have been chasing – it’s all the more crushing. Bellamy knows it, has lived it, has felt it. And he can see it in this woman before him.

“Rock bottom,” Bellamy supplies. “And I really don’t want to leave you here, wake up tomorrow and see you pronounced dead on the news.”

She blinks at him. He gives her a shaky smile, desperation seeping into his chest. He’s not leaving this woman here. His heart is set on that.

“My name is Bellamy Blake,” he introduces himself again, this time outstretching his hand to her. “And I promise, you don’t have to do this alone.”

Her eyes are traced on him, head spinning against the brick wall she propped up against. Although their half-lidded, she tries her best to concentrate. Bellamy appreciates the effort, finds watching her spiral within herself all the more heartbreaking. It was surreal when he was watching himself do it, but seeing it on this person across from him is a whole other turmoil. She inhales, exhaling out shakily.

She slaps her hand against his, and he makes sure to hold onto her tightly. “My name is Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

* * *

Bellamy didn’t exactly picture starting off his New Year with a woman sprawled out on his bed – well, at least not like this.

The second they get to his apartment – which is a mission, by the way – Clarke trudges into his bedroom, almost as if the place belongs to her. After a forty five minute walk that was supposed to only take fifteen, she throws herself out of Bellamy’s arms and stumbles away from him. He’s holding her heels in his hand, her bare feet pattering against the floor before he eventually hears the springs of his mattress. Setting her heels down by the door, he slips off his own shoes before treading into the kitchen.

Bellamy fills a glass of water, grabs a browning banana from his fruit bowl, scans over the cupboards in his kitchen. In his twenty seven years of life, he’s never had to care for a drunk person other than himself. It’s a little nerve-wracking, and he expects it to bring back a flood of horrible memories. But instead, he feels a surge in his chest, one he hasn’t quite felt in years – and he’s thankful for the ability to feel anything.

With the glass of water in hand and banana in the other, he strides into his bedroom. Clarke’s body occupies a large chunk of his double bed. She’s face down, dress synched in all the wrong places and hair messily sprawled out over her back. Bellamy places the glass of water and banana on his nightstand, finds an empty spot by the foot of his bed, and gently sinks down onto it. Her back barely rises and falls, and for a moment, he’s afraid she’s not breathing. He carefully leans over, presses his two fingers to the pulse point on her neck.

She instantly flips around onto her back, more than awake. Bellamy jerks backwards, hands up in mock defense. The alcohol is still flooding through Clarke’s system, as she stares at him with reddened, half-lidded eyes. But she doesn’t say anything. Not a word slips past her lips, she just stares at him, and he can’t help but do the same to her. Not so much of an enigma, more like a puzzle that he’s trying to decode before he proceeds.

He could have this whole thing wrong. This could just be a girl who had a really bad day, or week or maybe even year, who decided to let out her frustrations at a bar. But something tells Bellamy that even though he’s got this woman far from figured out, there’s this one thing about her that may just be right.

“How long have you been drinking?” Bellamy asks, flat out.

Clarke doesn’t look like she’s going to answer. Her features don’t morph into anything more readable, she just continues to stare him, unmoving. “You have really pretty freckles.”

Bellamy sighs, “Clarke, I asked you a question.”

Somehow, she finds the strength to sit up. Bellamy draws back, startled by how close she’s become. For a moment, she doesn’t make a move, her eyes just scan over his body, analyzing him. It’s sloppy, her eyes cutting to different parts of him like a stop motion picture, and her face twists like she might burst into tears again.

“I don’t need a handsome stranger to save me,” Clarke slurs. She brings up her hand, lightly traces her fingers from freckle to freckle on his face. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“That’s exactly what an alcoholic would say,” Bellamy shivers underneath her touch, fails to keep his voice even.

A sultry smile appears on Clarke’s face. She leans closer to him, dangerously so. The hotness of her breath hits his lips. “Oh yeah? And how would you know that?”

“Because I am one.”

All emotion drops from Clarke’s face, instantly replaced with the void she possessed just seconds ago. She sinks back, and Bellamy swallows thickly, watching as her face drains before him. Clarke scoots back, gently laying back on the bed and turning her back to him. He watches her, kind of out of breath, and kind of star struck. He knows she’s awake, itches to pry for more. But he knows better than to question an alcoholic who’s quite drunk; it’s not going to get either of them anywhere. But damn, he’s sure curious about the one that lays in his bed.

Bellamy finds the gull to stand to his feet. He knows Clarke’s not asleep just yet, but he’s sure the alcohol will catch up with her soon enough. She’s in no state to leave this place, not after she barely made it here with his assistance. So, he reaches for the wrinkled duvet covers at the end of the bed, and carefully lays them out over her. She says nothing, and neither does he, before he slips out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

The creak in the floorboards wake him up that morning. Bellamy’s uncertain as to what time it is, only knows he passed out on the couch sometime after one. The sunlight that peaks through the curtains of his living room beam a tangy orange color, so it must be pretty damn early. His heavy eyelids could have told him that. But he doesn’t have time to focus on the early morning, because another creak of the floorboards disrupts him.

Bellamy sits up straight, just to catch Clarke by the door, heels in one hand while the other hovers over the doorknob. Her head snaps to him in alarm, her great escape interrupted by his horrible sleeping practices. Their eyes lock, and silence hangs over their heads, both of them either afraid or unsure of what to say. Bellamy hesitantly gets to his feet, grateful he slept in his jeans so he didn’t have to expose his boxers to this absolute stranger in his apartment.

“Hi,” Bellamy says.

Clarke’s shoulders slump. “Hi.”

“Do you remember my name? It’s–”

“Blake.”

“Close. Blake’s my last name. It’s Bellamy.”

Clarke nods, averts her gaze from him. His eyes scan over her. Her reddened eyes have sunken into dark circles, his skin still patchy from the night before. She’s sobered up, for the most part, but he catches sight on her hands. She scratches feverishly at the insight of her palm; something that could be a nervous tick or a withdrawal from alcohol. He’s not sure. Bellamy’s kind of clueless about everything; he’s only akin to his own experience.

“I left water for you, on the nightstand. And a banana,” Bellamy explains. Clarke’s eyes lift to meet his once more. “Helps with the–”

“I know what helps with a hangover,” Clarke snaps.

Bellamy nods slowly, “So do I.”

Her eyes glaze over him, weary and irritated. “I’m sorry that you’re an alcoholic. But I’m not one.”

Maybe, on any other day, he’d believe her. Or if there wasn’t something in his gut, he’d let her lie straight to his face, allow her to slip out the door. But something buried deep inside of him just can’t do that, not when she stands before him like this.

“You’re not,” Bellamy repeats. “So, you normally steal bottles of whiskey from bars?”

“Only on bad days,” Clarke shrugs.

“How many bad days are there?”

“Look, I don’t even know you. And you don’t know me, so–”

Bellamy moves around the couch, digging through the drawers on his end table. He finds a sticky note and pen, sprawls down his number and turns back towards Clarke. His sudden movements startle her, but not as much as when he thrusts the sticky note out to her in an act of desperation. She glances at the sticky note and then back at him, with the arch of her brow.

“I get you don’t want to talk right now. You don’t want my help, because you don’t want help at all,” Bellamy repeats the words said to him just years ago. “But there’s a reason you were sobbing in that alleyway last night with a stolen bottle of whiskey. Wasn’t just a bad day.”

Clarke straightens, lips pursing. Her eyes dart back down to the sticky note before cementing on him. “What’s this, huh? The number to an AA meeting that I don’t need?”

“No. It’s my number. If you need me–”

“You? A total stranger?”

“It didn’t really seemed like you had anyone else.”

Bellamy’s snippiness doesn’t sit well with Clarke. She glowers at him, eyes narrowing and lips forming a scowl. The blue in her eyes manage to darken, standing out in conjunction with the circles under her eyes. She doesn’t tear her gaze away from him as she snatches the sticky note and crumbles it up in her hand, before discarding it on the floor.

“I don’t need anyone,” Clarke spits. Bellamy straightens, hand falling limp to his side and exhaling slowly. Clarke’s gaze softens as her hand twists on the doorknob, and she takes a step out the door. “Thanks for letting me crash, Bellamy. Happy New Year.”

She’s gone before he can even open his mouth.

* * *

Bellamy doesn’t expect to ever see Clarke again. It doesn’t stop him from thinking about her, though; the blue in her eyes, the irritation sprawled across her face or the way her touch has lingered on his cheekbone. He wonders what she’s doing, knows she’s probably drunk, hopes she’s okay. It’s a little bit stalker-ish of him, but he searches her up on various social medias, all of which are private or seemingly deactivated.

He can only hope she finds the help she needs on her own. Part of him regrets not giving her the location of an AA meeting or a helpful number to call, one that wasn’t his own. He doesn’t know how to be a sober companion for anyone but himself. And he just learned how to do that.

But when he walks into _The Dropship_ just a couple of weeks later, and sees Clarke propped up at his usual spot, chatting away with Gina – he thinks maybe, he could learn how to do that for her.

“Bellamy,” Gina greets him warmly. “I was just about to call you. You have a visitor.”

Bellamy tips his head to Gina in a silent thanks before she scatters down the bar. He glances at Clarke, who’s tucked into herself, slumped at the wall. She hesitates to meet his gaze, but manages to do so, and there are the blue eyes that have been so heavily ingrained in his mind since the start of the New Year. Her teeth graze over her bottom lip as he leans against the bar.

“I thought you worked here,” Clarke admits. “But it’s your girlfriend that does.”

“Gina’s not my girlfriend,” Bellamy finds himself defending.

Clarke raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk on her face. “Oh? An ex?”

“Are you here to educate me on my own dating life?”

Clarke laughs, and it’s the first time he’s heard it. A bit scratchy, with a high pitch resonating in his ears. Her gaze lands back on him, with a smile overtaking her smirk. “Would that make you forgive me for my bitchiness a couple weeks ago?”

A small smile creeps onto Bellamy’s lips; a façade more than anything. He scans over her, takes in the plush of her face, flushed and red in addition to her sunken eyes. This whole place reeks of alcohol, but it practically dances off her lips. She must notice the way he glances over her, her mouth forming a tight line as she struggles to sit up straight against the brick wall she’s propped up against.

Bellamy jerks forward, laying his hand on the small of her back to steady her. Clarke coughs, a fusion of her dry throat and the awkwardness she must feel. He makes sure she’s steady, secure in his grasp before he sits down on the chair across from her. Clarke forces herself to look at him, cheeks now with an added flush.

“I want help,” Clarke states. “And don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that night, but…I’m not doing this because of a stranger in a bar.” Bellamy doesn’t say anything, just sits, stares, listens to her every word. “But I think you could help me.”

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been helpful to anyone, but himself. Bellamy’s spent years repairing that trust within his own being, facing the fact that nobody could rely on him until he could himself. And now, here he is, five years sober, and with what to show for it? He has Gina, but she’s pretty much his only friend – he doesn’t really know if it’s appropriate to count his sponsor. Granted, without his sponsor, Bellamy would have surpassed rock bottom by now.

And as Bellamy stares at Clarke, her tiny frame overtaken by her prominent features; he can’t help but see himself. Maybe that’s what’s drawn him to her, their similarities. He’s secure enough in his own soberness now to open to other people, and yet, Clarke is the first person he’s ever felt incline to do that for. A total stranger, and yet, one Bellamy feels he already knows all too well.

* * *

They settle into a coffee shop, far enough from the bar. The whiff of alcohol still penetrates most of the smell, but Bellamy’s accustom to the scent. It’s part of why the bar doesn’t bother him; alcohol’s never been as tempting as a beverage, more of a distraction in his life. He’s learned to live with it, surrounded himself with it in order to ingrain it into his mind as something else entirely. Clarke, evidently, doesn’t have the same mindset.

“You’d think I gave you holy water,” Bellamy quips an eyebrow.

Clarke stares at the water, her face twisting into disgust. “I’ve never really been a big water drinker. I always preferred soda’s or coffee. Even before…”

She trails off, but finds herself meeting Bellamy’s eye in the process. He nods, understanding, but nudges the bottle of water closer to her regardless. Clarke sighs, but grabs the bottle anyways, unscrewing the cap and bringing it to her lips. Her eyes never leave his, not as the water travels down her throat or once she settles the bottle back down on the table. Bellamy makes sure to keep her eye contact level with his, watching how her blue eyes flicker and watch him, almost analytically. Like she’s trying to figure him out, just as much as he tries to decipher her. As if she’s not the one who went to find him.

“How long ago was before?” Bellamy inquires, leaning back on his chair.

Clarke huffs, drawing out a low breath. Her fingers swirl around the bottle, nails grazing against the plastic. “Three years. Just about.”

Bellamy nods slowly, “What was it for you?”

Furrowing her brow, Clarke squints at him. “What was what?”

“The tipping point. Your rock bottom. How did it start?”

“A lot of things. It wasn’t just one incident.” 

“Then pick one.”

A small smirk appears on Clarke’s face. “You’re kind of nosy, you know that?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, “A sponsor is supposed to be.”

“So, you agree? You’ll be my sponsor?”

“Let’s just call it a sober companion for now.”

It’s Clarke’s turn to roll her eyes, but the tip ends of her smirk don’t dissipate. He’s not sure if the alcohol makes her sultry or it’s just how she is naturally, but her eyes glaze over him mischievously; like she’s the one waiting for him to crack. It should dampen his desire to help her, but it doesn’t. He can’t imagine what it would be like to have someone else abandon you, especially when this complete stranger is asking another complete stranger for help. And begrudgingly – a part of him does want to help.

Bellamy remains silent, his face stoic; lips formed in a tight line and gaze blank. Clarke’s amused expression diminishes, morphing into a look of seriousness that Bellamy has yet to witness. She straightens in her chair, eyes fleeing around the stop, almost like she’s already looking for a way out. He leans forward, slides his hand across the table, and reaches for her fingers. They wrap around his, and he looks at her, only her.

“Clarke, I want to help you,” Bellamy keeps his voice low. “But I’m new to this, too.”

“You’re still drinking?” Clarke raises her eyebrows.

“No. The sober companion part – the friend part.” Bellamy sighs deeply. “So, I need you to meet me halfway.”

Clarke stares back at him, blue eyes blinking in recognition. Her fingers tighten around his, thumb grazing the soft spot of his skin. She nods, “I was nineteen when it started. In my second year of Pre-Med.”

Bellamy nods slowly. Her gaze drops from his, but only for a moment, as she collects her breath. He keeps his eyes on her, never once fleeing from her. He’s here, some part buried deep inside of him has already cemented him right here, before her. He won’t admit to it, not to himself or to her, but he knows, for however long she lets him, he’s going to be right here.

And Clarke continues, “My father passed that year. I thought I could bury myself in my program, but I only lost myself along the way. I hated what I was doing, I could barely get through assignments. My girlfriend left me, and that was kind of the tipping point. I already stopped feeling like a person. And you know what? Feeling nothing was better than feeling something.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy whispers softly. A surge of what once was spikes in his chest, and he nods. “Yeah, I know how that is.”

“I started going out to bars every night, then started stalking up in my dorm. Which wasn’t allowed, seeing as I was only nineteen,” Clarke inhales, exhaling shakily. “Got kicked out of the dorms. Eventually, spent so much time drinking, I didn’t do any of my assignments or tests, didn’t show up to class. I flunked out.” A pitiful smile rests on her features. “And here we are.”

Bellamy stays quiet for a moment, soaking in her words, relishing in her touch. Her grip tightens on his hand, as if she’s afraid he’s going to pull away. But his eyes stay on her, a silent promise of what he’s going to be. His decision was made long ago, maybe the moment he met her. But it’s confirmed here, in this tiny coffee shop he never intends to bring her back to. It must click for Clarke, too, as a fresh bout of tears collect in her eyes.

“I would hate when people would tell me _I’m sorry_ ,” Bellamy starts. “I’m not sorry for you. I understand you. I was once where you were, and somehow, I came back. I wanted to come back.”

“I want to be sober. I want to feel–” Clarke’s voice cracks. “I want my life back.”

Bellamy nods, slow, understanding and yet all the more eager. “You’re going to get your life back, Clarke. I promise you.”

He hasn’t made a promise to anyone but himself in a long time. His heart flutters and his stomach dips at the words that spew from his own mouth, but it’s the way Clarke’s face lights up and her chest heaves out a breath of relief that he finds the air return to his lungs. She leans forward, scooting closer in her chair just to have a tighter grip on his hand. He squeezes back, and the spoken promise is solidified with his unspoken touch.

* * *

“I think becoming a sponsor is a great idea, Bellamy,” Kane tells him that following night, a whiff of fresh cooked pasta brewing through the air.

Bellamy sits at his sponsor’s dining room table, tucked into himself. He turns to stare at his phone, glaring at the screen; just waiting for a message from Clarke. It’s only been a couple hours since he walked her home and they parted ways, and she texted him a few times just to make sure the number was correct. But right now, as he sits at Kane’s table for dinner, there’s nothing aside from a blank screen, his default wallpaper just affirming how depressing it all is.

He barely hears Kane as he tries to chat with him. All he can do is stare at his home screen, until he eventually unlocks his phone to stare at Clarke’s contact name. He doesn’t even have a picture for her. She had to go to work, something he had to prepare her to do earlier that day; sober her up, make sure she changed into her work clothes, watched her leave in the Uber. Her shift isn’t done for another hour or so, but she hasn’t even texted him on her break.

“Bellamy,” the stern part of Kane’s voice disrupts his spiral. Kane sets down a plate of fresh pasta before him. “I think it’s a good idea to be a sponsor – not a helicopter parent.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy mutters his acknowledgement for the spaghetti before him. “I’ve barely known her for a couple weeks, and I just…sent her out into the world. That seems so irresponsible of me.”

Kane settles across from him, digging his fork into his own plate of pasta. “Well, when are you seeing her next?”

“Tomorrow. I’m bringing her to AA.”

“That’s a good start. How is she getting there?”

“I thought we’d walk together.”

His sponsor mulls over the idea, nodding in agreeance as he chews in silence. Bellamy watches, his appetite dissipating the longer he stares at Kane. He’s not soaking in anything, all he can think about is Clarke. She’s running rampant in his mind, and he rubs his hands together, finds the warmth of the friction that attempts to calm his nerves. But there Clarke is again, circling in his mind.

“She hasn’t texted me since she started work,” Bellamy leans his forearms against the table. “Not even on her breaks. She could have left, started having a drink–”

“Could be,” Kane shrugs.

Bellamy’s eyes narrow. “You’re not helping.”

“Bellamy, you are her support. You are there when she needs you. And yes, sometimes, you have to reach out. But what she does is not a reflection on you.”

“How am I supposed to know when she needs me?”

“It’s more difficult in the beginning. You have to get to know her, right now you know nothing about her. You can’t predict her behavior,” Kane explains, resting his fork against the side of his plate. He stares at Bellamy, “I think being a sober companion, or sponsor is a good idea, Bellamy. You’re built for it. But do you think you’re ready?”

Bellamy runs his hand through his hair, a low breath exhaling from his lips. “I’ve been sober for five years.”

“Being sober has got nothing to do with it, Bellamy,” Kane insists. “Do you think this is going to risk your healing process?”

“I am healed,” Bellamy snaps, eyes darting to Kane accusatorily. “I haven’t touched a drink in five years. I can stay all night at a bar and not even be tempted. I’m not the one that needs healing, it’s Clarke.”

Kane settles back against his chair, gaze falling over him. Bellamy purses his lips tightly, shifting in his own chair. He can’t deal with his makeshift stares; never quite blank, always telling a story that Bellamy struggles to decipher. Bellamy’s learned to just stare back, not show that he’s intimidated or shaken. It’s just Kane’s way of making him think, showing him that while his sponsor’s wheels are turning, his should, too.

He’s immensely grateful for Kane. They have these dinners bi-weekly, sometimes once a week if their lives don’t get in the way. Kane could be considered a friend, in the grand scheme of things. In a lot of ways, he knows Bellamy better than he knows himself. He’s been here since Bellamy decided to get clean, and he’s got a knack for his words of wisdom. Bellamy appreciates it – but sometimes people just don’t realize how far he’s come.

People only tend to see him in increments. Kane during these bi-weekly dinners and Gina while he’s sitting at her bar. They don’t see the nights he spends alone in his bedroom, curled up in himself with nothing to do to pass time. He never touches a drink, then. They don’t see him slaving away at work, a job he could wholeheartedly care less about, but he never goes home and fills himself a glass. They don’t see him take people out on dates, only for them to order the most expensive alcoholic drink on the fucking menu, and for him to pathetically reserve himself to a water.

They don’t see it. Bellamy knows how far he’s come. And all he could ever want is for that same progress to happen to Clarke. And he knows he can be the one to help her get there, just like Kane guided him along the way. Maybe being a helicopter parent isn’t the best way to go, but it’s rooted in the protective nature of him that’s been suppressed for years. Fuck, all he wants to do is fucking help.

Bellamy’s shoulders deflate, and he lets out a low, shaky breath. “I know I can help her. I want to. I _can_.”

Kane nods slowly, “I know you can, Bellamy. And I’m here for you, if you need any guidance with this.”

Bellamy’s teeth graze his lower lip with a slight nod. He grabs his fork, twisting it around the spirals of spaghetti and bringing it to his mouth. Kane is here if Bellamy needs guidance. Clarke is a whole different ballgame. Clarke asked for _Bellamy_ ’s help. Not Kane’s. But, he doesn’t vocalize any of that, just shoves the forkful of spaghetti in his mouth and changes the subject.

* * *

Clarke’s leg bounces when she’s nervous. Bellamy learns this when he sits next to her during the AA meeting. She tries to keep it to a minimal, a soft bounce that gradually increases. Every once in a while, she digs her palm into her thigh, trying to keep her shaky leg to a steady pace, and for a while it works. Only for it to pick up again when a new person starts talking.

“Hey,” Bellamy leans over to whisper to her. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“I won’t be,” Clarke quips, a little too snarky. She winces, sensing her own tone. “Sorry. I just never saw myself in a place like this.”

“A place like this?”

“Yeah. I never needed to be someone to recover from something.”

“Alright, picture perfect.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just,” Clarke’s eyes scan the room, all quiet and listening to the speaker up at the front. She scoots a little closer to Bellamy, eyes focusing back on him. “A decade ago. Did you see yourself spending your Thursday nights _here_?”

“I was only sixteen. What did I know?”

“Okay, don’t be an ass. I was only twelve.”

“Exactly. We were kids. What did we know?”

Clarke sinks back into her seat, shoulders slumping in defeat. She stares at the speaker in front of her, barely blinking. Bellamy sighs inwardly, shifting his gaze back to the speaker as well. Yet, he can’t help but steal glances at Clarke from out of his peripheral. She never looks at him, barely gives him a glance, but she feels his presence. He can tell in the way her shoulders tense and her lips purse.

He doesn’t mean to be so harsh with her, but it’s something he learns early on about Clarke – sweetness doesn’t have a prominent effect on her. Everything with her has to be straight up, point blank. It’s a good thing that’s Bellamy’s default setting. His only problem is answering her questions, ones that require such a vast knowledge of addiction and subliminally implies the meaning of life. Clarke wants that in a one-sentence answer, all wrapped up with a tiny bow.

Maybe if he was like Kane, his words of wisdom could be summarized into that perfect little bow that Clarke craves. But he’s never been all too wise – his life has crafted him to be protective, stern, to know when it’s time to learn a thing or two. It’s why he knows he can help Clarke – he has all the qualities of a wise man. He’s just not one. But as he steals glances at her from his seat, he thinks he might learn to be.

“Thank you,” the host, Charles Pike, gives a tight-lipped smile to the speaker as she steps down. He resumes his position at the podium, glances out at the crowd. “We have time for one more speaker today. Would anyone like to share?”

Bellamy usually reserves himself to speaking once every three months. He attends every meeting, but just so people know he’s not there because he has to be, he takes the podium sporadically. He’d only just spoken a couple weeks ago, right before the conclusion of the year. Yet, he doesn’t even think about it, standing from his seat so abruptly that the chair loudly skids back behind him.

Clarke looks up at him, surprised. Bellamy forces himself not to glance at her, a little fearful he’ll lose his gull if he catches sight of those blue eyes of hers. He coughs awkwardly into his fist, stares right at the podium.

“I’d like to share,” Bellamy says. A brief silence falls over the room, and he feels himself flush. “I mean, if nobody else would like to.”

Pike looks almost just as stunned as Clarke, but his shifts to relief. His eyes light up, and he extends his hand out to Bellamy, beckoning him over. “Of course, Bellamy. Come on up.”

Bellamy nods curtly, shifting down the row. Pike steps off the podium, allowing Bellamy to take position at the forefront of the room. His hands settle against the wood of the podium, fingers wrapping around the sturdiness of it, as if to steady himself. He’s done this before, and usually ever so casually, without much of a worry. After all, all these people are in similar situations at his, or at least once were.

Yet, as he stares out at the crowd of people, some of which he’s known in passing for years – their faces mush together. The grey walls of the common room saturate the scene before him, almost dulling the space to a comfort. Bellamy knows these people, feels like he’s a part of the grey and the mush. Not because they’re addicts, or recovering or anything – they just lump together in one form of unity. He, along with majority of the people in this room, may have to attend these meetings for the rest of his life.

But then there’s Clarke. Singled out from the rest of them, despite her similar struggles. Nothing about her is dull, like the rest of him. She stands out, even slumped against the chair, curled into herself. Her bright, blue eyes shine and sparkle. A lot of people that attend these meetings still have that twinkle in their eye, or have gained it back – he’s surely not a part of that category – but Clarke’s are ever so glossy. They lock with his, and he swears, for a moment, a shimmer could be found in his own eye.

“Hi, I’m Bellamy,” he speaks into the podium. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

The chorus of hello’s ring through his ear, something that’s repeated for every person that steps up on the podium. Normally, Clarke doesn’t react, but he catches the slight of a smile on her face when they all say it to him – despite her staying silent. It brings a slight smile of his own to his face. He tears his gaze away from her and stares out at the crowd.   
  


“I know I spoke just recently, about how I felt approaching this five year of sobriety mark.” Bellamy starts. “I was talking about how I finally have come to terms with the reality of things. I’ve had this steady job in mechanics for about four and half years, I’m able to go to a bar without having a drink.” He clears his throat. “My sister still doesn’t talk to me, but I know she’s okay.”

The silence that falls over the room is louder than anything. Most of the people in this room know this summarization of his dull life, but Clarke doesn’t. And when he glances at her, it’s clear she didn’t know about some parts of his speech. Definitely not his sister. Her eyes widen, not so much in contempt but in recognition. It resonates through her body, and she uncurls her arms and straightens in her chair.

“And I’m okay,” Bellamy insists, a plastic smile on his face. “I’m here, five years sober. And I don’t remember the last time I was this _okay_.” He glances back at the crowd, pausing. “You know, a friend asked me if this is where I thought I would be ten years ago.”

A couple of snickers and snorts litter across the room. He’s sure Clarke’s glaring at him right now, and that brings a smirk to his face. But he controls it, straightening his posture and never once glancing at her. If he did catch a glimpse, he know he’d break back out into that smirk, just for her.

“I was sixteen, and teenagers at that age are supposed to be somewhere they shouldn’t be,” a couple of laughs follow, and Bellamy breathes out shakily. “But I was at home, taking care of my sister. Always. I didn’t have many friends, wasn’t in any extra-curriculars, didn’t go to parties. My sister was my responsibility.”

He meets Clarke’s eyes once more.

“All my teen years, I didn’t even know what alcohol tasted like. I couldn’t have anything impair how I cared for my sister, nor did I ever have the opportunity to try it. Mom was always at work, and I was always at home. I didn’t start drinking until she got a promotion and could spend more time at home.”

It’s hard, recalling this time in his life. Bellamy spent years trying to block it out with the alcohol, and while he allows himself to feel now – it’s not any less painful then it was then. But Clarke keeps her eyes on him, steadies him just with her stare. And without breaking his gaze from her, he continues.

“Here my mom was, being a mother to my sister, after she spent my childhood elsewhere. I couldn’t stand seeing them become so close so quickly, not after I practically raised Octavia. So, at the age of twenty, I had my first drink. And for a year, all I was to them, was alcohol. Like all the years before had been erased.”

Bellamy takes a deep breath, finding himself become unleveled. Clarke keeps her gaze intent on him, and he has to remind himself that this is for her. He’s already healed, resolved in his addiction. His story may be his own, but it’s for her – to know that it doesn’t matter what your battle is, at the end of the day, everyone ends up in the same place.

And all he wants is for Clarke to be in that same place with him. He thinks – no, he knows – she deserves that.

“I thought I’d never get over it. I didn’t even feel like a person without them,” Bellamy’s chest rises and falls, ever so slowly. “I may have got better for them, but I had to stay better for me.”

* * *

The brisk winter air whisks by them, numbing their exposed faces as they walk towards Clarke’s apartment. It’s mostly silent, if not for her quiet suggestions on how to get their quicker. She ducks her head from the cold when a big gust of wind flies through them, but Bellamy always just looks at her to shield him.

Bellamy tries to anticipate when she’s going to ask, because he can see the wheels turning in her mind. She tries to come off as being passive or unbothered, but she chews on her bottom lip in contemplation, steals glances at him when she thinks he’s not looking. It’s only when they approach a stoplight, a mere street away from their building, that she says anything.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Clarke says.

“Her name is Octavia,” Bellamy replies casually, pressing his thumb against the button for the crosswalk.

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“At her high school graduation, over five and a half years ago.”

“Bellamy, I’m so sorry–”

Bellamy gives her a tight smile. “Don’t be. I’ve come to terms with it.”

Clarke may be able to sense that’s a lie, but the crosswalk signals for them before she can say anything. They stride across in silence, the night sky hanging above them, stars guarded by the thickness of the clouds. As they approach Clarke’s apartment building, a snowflake falls from the sky, landing on top of her nose. She tries to lick at it with her tongue, and Bellamy smiles. She doesn’t even notice as they waltz into her apartment, the warmth of the air rushing in and melting the snowflake against her nose almost instantly.

“How did you find today’s meeting?” Bellamy asks as they walk up to her door.

Clarke lets out a shaky breath. “It was – a lot. But a good a lot. Like something I needed to hear.”

“Do you think you’ll speak next time?”

“Maybe. But I rather confide in you than confide in a group of strangers.”

Bellamy gives her a half-smile. “I know. It’s hard. But they’re all in the same boat as you.”

“I used to think I was so unique,” Clarke jokes, leaning her head against the door.

Bellamy doesn’t skip a beat. “You are.”

A small smile breaks out onto Clarke’s face, and a flush appears on Bellamy’s cheeks. She blinks at him, as if the words are still registering in her head. His tongue burns, like something he shouldn’t have said has rolled off it. But Clarke doesn’t seem to mind at him, gazing at him such admiration that he thinks his heart stops for a second.

The swing of the door disrupts them, Clarke nearly stumbling back. Bellamy reaches out, swinging his arm over her lower back and pulling her to him. She falls against his chest, startled as she glances behind her to the now, opened door. Bellamy’s still surveying over her, checking if she’s okay before he lifts his own ahead.

Standing at the door is a woman with a fierce ponytail, garbage bag in hand. It rattles with the familiar sound of glass bottles as the woman glances from Clarke to Bellamy. “Ah, this is the knight and shining armor that sent me a selfie on New Year’s.”

“Raven,” Clarke exhales, “What are you doing?”

“Throwing out the alcohol, as you instructed,” the woman, Raven, declares proudly. “I think I’m nailing this roommate thing.”

Bellamy awkwardly glances from Clarke to Raven, extending his hand to her. “Sorry, I’m–”

Raven uses her free hand to shake his. “Bellamy Blake, as per your text message.”

Clarke uncurls herself from Bellamy’s grasp just as his hand falls back to his side. She brushes herself off, sheepishly glancing from Bellamy to Raven. Her roommate seems relatively unbothered by this conversation, slipping past the two of them with the door still left ajar before striding down the hall.

“I’ll be back in like two,” Raven calls over her shoulder.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at Clarke, her cheeks are flushed pink. She glances down the hall, watching Raven’s ponytail swish behind her before she inevitably turns the corner. Clarke stares back at Bellamy, stepping inside the apartment.

“You sent that _if-he-kills-me_ message to Raven on New Year’s,” Clarke explains, hand balancing on the door. “I didn’t realize till I woke up that morning.”

“I’m glad I got the roommate on the first try,” Bellamy smirks.

“She wasn’t my roommate at the time. In fact, the only reason I had her number is because she found out I slept with her fiancé.”

Bellamy’s eyes widen, mouth agape. She says it so casually, just stares at him to await his reaction. He glances down the hall, now empty and Raven-less, and wonders how a woman like that – or anyone for that matter – can choose to move in with the woman the sleeps with her boyfriend, much less her _fiancé_.

“In all fairness, I didn’t know he was her fiancé,” Clarke sighs deeply. “I was super drunk, I didn’t even know his name. But he tried to see me again and she found the texts on his phone and–” She shrugs. “The rest is history.”

“So my text…did what? Sparked her fight or flight?”

“It was definitely fight,” Clarke giggles. “She thought I was rubbing it in her face that I could sleep with anyone, including her fiancé. I explained everything the next morning and she asked to meet.”

“And you said yes?”

“I felt like she deserved to have that. But she didn’t yell at me or fight me. I explained everything to her. How drunk we were, how I was always drunk…and it lead to you. She’s the one who told me to reach out to you.”

Bellamy nods slowly, a slow smile creeping up on his face. “Well, I’m glad she did.”

Clarke rests her head against the doorframe, smiling fondly. “Me, too.”

It’s unconventional, that’s for sure – but Bellamy thinks that’s exactly what they’re meeting was, too. He can’t recount many stories of sponsors who find their companions in the back of alleys, and while he’s sure there’s a good chunk of them who do, this story just feels like his and Clarke’s.

* * *

Clarke attends AA meetings with him weekly. She never speaks, and neither does Bellamy, but they sit together, attentively listening to anyone who chooses to share. He finds that Clarke likes being there – or at least, has an appreciation for the people who speak. It’s not so much as an envy or a want for her to do it herself, but an admiration for the strength of the people recovering, and those still in the midst of their troubles.

While he walks her back to her apartment, she comments on what people said. Nothing critical, just the smallest of details – _I didn’t know he owned his own restaurant_ or _I’m glad she was able to go back to school_. Just little bits of praise that she litters into the universe on their walk back. She always glances at Bellamy, asks him for his feedback. But in all honesty, he doesn’t have much.

“You have an opinion on pretty much everything,” Clarke snorts as they round the corner. “And with AA meetings, you don’t?”

“I don’t have an opinion on people’s _lives_ ,” Bellamy points out.

“Now you’re making me sound nosy.”

“Well, you are.”

Clarke playfully swats his chest, a laugh erupting from his chest. They walk across the crosswalk, up to Clarke’s apartment, where Bellamy leaves her every week.

It’s a balance, Bellamy learns. He has his own life, beyond the responsibilities of a social companion. He has his own job, his own household duties, his own friends – well, Gina, but she counts. Clarke’s life is no different – her job, her duties, her friends. Their addictions may have and will continue to encompass their lives for a while, but there’s other elements to focus on.

But whenever Thursday night rolls around, Bellamy is with Clarke. Their lives, still at the apex of addiction, come to fruition on those Thursday nights, at those AA meetings. They soak into the reality of what they are _together_. Bellamy’s done this before, _alone_ except with Kane’s much needed guidance. It’s no walk in the park, and it’s just as mentally draining as it is physically difficult, so he knows just how Clarke feels.

Granted, he didn’t expect to feel this ease whenever he’s with Clarke. There’s the added pressure of her being okay, of him ensuring that she’s on the right path, but whenever he’s with her everything melts away in the blue of her eyes. There’s a pang in his chest, one that tells him this isn’t good, that those blue eyes should have little to no effect on his anxieties. But if he doesn’t tell anyone, and doesn’t admit it to himself, it’s almost like it’s not real. It’s one feeling he’s adamant about suppressing.

“Goodnight, Bellamy,” Clarke says to him, at the door, like always.

Bellamy gives her a half-smile, tries to ignore the rapid beat of his heart. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

* * *

Gina hands Bellamy his regularly scheduled glass of water, eyeing him suspiciously over the counter. “You don’t plan to bring her here, now do you?”

Bellamy smirks, grabbing his glass and sipping from the cool beverage. “Don’t be jealous.”

Gina scoffs, a teasing smile fleeing across her features. “You wish.”

The bar is pretty empty tonight – it’s a Monday, which is to be expected. Bellamy got off work just a couple hours ago, and with nothing else to do, _The Dropship_ just seemed like a natural place to reside. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s here whenever he’s got nothing to do, and that’s pretty often for him. It should worry his sponsor, or literally any decent friend, but those two know him pretty well. He’s never been a bar drinker. Bellamy’s a people person, even if he’ll never admit it, even on his deathbed. He likes being surrounded by people instead of cooped up in his own apartment.

If Gina hadn’t known him for so long, she wouldn’t understand so well. But she does, always flashing him a smile and readying him a non-alcoholic drink – which is always water – by the time he walks through the door. There’s a time where he thought she just took pity of him, but now he kind of doesn’t care. The soft hum of techno music, drunk partygoers and endless amounts of free water are enough to satisfy him.

“I have a different kind of willpower than most,” Bellamy teases, setting his glass on the side. He relaxes into the chair, his mind drifting back to Clarke. “I’d never bring her here. I only really see her at AA.”

Gina hums, but doesn’t say anything. She retrieves a rag from the shelves and begins wiping down the counter, averting her gaze. Bellamy sits up straight, squinting at her. Her lips purse shut, but moving his head downwards to catch a glimpse of her, he can easily spot the amusement flickering in her eyes. He sits back, folds his hands in his lap.

“What?” Bellamy demands to know.

“Nothing,” Gina shrugs.

“Gina.”

She probably wouldn’t have said anything. Gina doesn’t like to get into people’s business unless invited in. And she knows Bellamy well enough to figure out this isn’t an invitation, more of an investigation. She wipes her rag across the last bit of surface area and turns her back to him to put it away, when Murphy swoops in.

“You’re obviously banging your drunk buddy,” Murphy snarls.

Bellamy narrows his eyes, a sneer growing across his lips. “Watch it, Murphy.”

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. You get rid of one addiction to find another. It’s no secret you’re probably a sex addict–”

Bellamy stands to his feet, anger flashing in his eyes. He steps forward, intent of grabbing Murphy by the scruff of his collar when Gina swoops in between them. Her eyes narrow dangerously into slits at Murphy, her colleague only finding amusement in the exchange. He puts his hands up in mock defense, stumbling backwards before making his way down the bar. Bellamy watches him go, a scowl permanently etched onto his face, waiting until Murphy disappears into the backroom to glance back at Gina.

“Is that what you think?” He softens, if only the slightest bit.

“I don’t think you’re _banging her_ ,” Gina clarifies.

He slumps back into the chair, never breaking his eye contact from Gina. “So, what do you think we’re doing?”

Gina sighs, digging her palms into the edge of the counter. She glances down at him, a small, pitiful smile on her lips. Bellamy’s chest coils, his eyes fleeing down to his lap. It’s like he already knows what she’s going to say. Hell, even if she wasn’t a friend, he’d be able to read her from a mile away.

“I don’t think you want to do anything,” Gina chooses her words carefully. “But I don’t think you notice how you talk about her.”

“I’m her sober companion,” Bellamy looks back up at Gina. “I talk about her because I have faith in her.”

“And that’s amazing, Bellamy. But are you sure that’s all this is?”

Bellamy runs over the image of Clarke in his mind. It used to be her, curled up behind that dumpster, sobbing her eyes out. And now, it’s the way she smiles at him when she says goodbye to him at the door. His heart does a little jump at the same time his stomach churns.

“I don’t even know her like that,” Bellamy admits. And something inside his chest stings.

* * *

There’s a woman in his bed. Bellamy’s hyperaware of the woman in his bed when his phone blares in the middle of the night, jolting him out of his deep sleep. He sits up straight in bed with a hearty gasp, clutching onto the sheets and glancing at the woman grumbling out of her sleep beside him. He inhales and exhales long and slow, staring at the woman as she tosses and turns, trying to remember her face as he grounds himself back into reality.

He reaches over to his nightstand, retrieving his phone. Clarke’s name brightens across his screen, along with the time: 3:21am. His stomach lurches, twists and drops all before he can scramble out of bed and grab his sweatpants discarded somewhere on the floor. The woman sits up in his bed, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as Bellamy balances his phone in between his shoulder and ear.

“Clarke,” he calls out into the phone, pulling his sweatpants up to his hips.

The soft sound of whimpers echo into his ears. “Bellamy. Bellamy, I think I’m going to do something bad.”

“Give me fifteen minutes, Clarke,” Bellamy untucks the phone from his shoulder, his finger swiping rapidly against the screen to download the Uber app. “Are you alone?”

“Raven’s at a friend’s.”

“I’m on my way. Stay on the phone, okay?”

The woman shifts in his bed, holding the covers over her chest. He barely glances at her as he throws a sweater over his head, nearly forgets that she’s even there. It’s only when her voice rings through his ears, disrupting Clarke’s cries that he snaps his neck towards her so fast, he nearly gets whiplash.

“What the fuck?” She mumbles.

He tries to run over her possible name in his head, but all he can think of is Clarke. “See yourself out in the morning.” And he’s out the door.

Clarke keeps her promise. She stays on the phone, albeit not saying much. Her cries subside into something softer, which kills Bellamy all the more but he listens intently. Every little shift, any signal of a movement, he analyzes. She sounds like she’s in her bed, or on the couch, sitting somewhere. The last thing he wants her to do is get up, go somewhere she knows that alcohol is. But she seems to stay put, although every minute that passes in the goddamn Uber feels like an eternity for him.

The car barely comes to a full stop before Bellamy’s out the door and charging out. His feet pound against the tiles of the lobby floor, his finger twitching against the elevator button. Clarke’s soft whimpers only fuel every ounce of adrenaline in his body. The elevator doors slide open, and Bellamy slips inside, finger pushing against the number of her floor. He hears her shift, maybe the dip of a cushion or a mattress, and his heart rate increases to something unearthly.

The second the elevator doors slide open to the correct floor, he’s sprinting down the hall. Bellamy stands outside of her apartment door, breathless.

“Clarke, I’m here–”

The door swings open, revealing Clarke, patchy faced and heaving breath. She throws herself into his arms, tucking her face into his neck, and returns to sobbing. He wraps his arms around her, allowing her to release every bit of emotion against him. Bellamy hugs her tighter, his arms secure around her, as she sobs and sobs and sobs.

Her apartment is dark, aside from the streetlights outside that provide the most minimal of lighting. Gently, Bellamy guides her inside, his arms still wrapped around her. He kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, and has her sit on the couch. He expects her to uncurl herself, sink into the comfort of the cushions, but she only holds him tighter. His back at an awkward angle, Clarke draped over him haphazardly as she sobs into his chest, he just sits and holds her.

Bellamy leans his cheek against the top of her head, his hand moving slowly up and down her back. Her sobs subside after a while, Bellamy’s not sure how long. It’s still dark outside when she unwraps her arms from him, wipes away at her tear stained cheeks and sits back on the opposite end of the couch. He tucks his hands into his lap, like some scared little child, watching as she scoots back into the cushion, not even looking at him.

Silence hangs over the two of them, any word breaking the tension that’s clouding the air. Clarke’s head dips down to her lap, her face scrunching into discomfort. Her weeps return, this time quieter. Bellamy scoots closer, peering at her as he places his hand on her knee.

“Clarke,” he says softly. “Hey, you can talk to me.”

“Nothing happened,” Clarke cries, shaking her head. “Nothing even happened.”

Bellamy sighs deeply, never once taking his eyes off her. “That’s okay. Nothing needs to happen for you to feel this way.”

Clarke’s head snaps up, fire seeping through the tears in her eyes. “If this is how I am when nothing happens, what about when something actually does?”

“Clarke–”

“All I want is a _fucking drink_. For no goddamn reason. Fuck, I’ve been sober for forty two days, and I’m already crumbling. I’m so fucking weak.”

Bellamy scoots even closer, his arm slinging around Clarke’s shoulder. She bursts into sobs once again, leaning against his chest. Her hand comes up, scrunching his sweatshirt and holding onto him like he’s her life support. Bellamy feels his breath slip away, but he finds the strength to hold Clarke even tighter. He’s here for her. He’s her sober companion. He has to be strong enough for the both of them.

“I was sober for three days before relapsing,” Bellamy says softly. Clarke looks up at him through tear eyes, sniffling. “And then twelve. Then just four.” He takes a deep breath. “Healing isn’t linear, Clarke. It took me a couple of tries to get it, right.”

Clarke gazes up at him, her blue eyes somehow even more blue through her tears. “I forget sometimes, that you went through this. You just seem so…together.”

Bellamy laughs bitterly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t, it’s because you’re a dick. Dicks are high and mighty.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but it’s all playful, because it brings a smile to Clarke’s face. He looks down at her, just for a moment before she pulls away from him, swatting away at her tears. Bellamy just watches, elbow leaning against the head of the couch and head propped up in the palm of his hand. Clarke tucks her knees up to her chest, dampened sleeve falling to her side before she stares back at him with her red-stained eyes.

She tilts her head to the side, a soft smile on her face. “I didn’t have a drink. But that’s because we have no alcohol in the apartment.”

“That’s good,” Bellamy shrugs. “Sometimes it takes that. It won’t always be that way.”

“It feels like it will.”

Bellamy smiles sadly. “A different day may feel a little bit more difficult. But every day, you’re another day sober. You’re stronger than the alcohol.” Clarke just stares at him, absorbing his words, but lips screwed shut. “Did you used to have another pastime? Before your addiction?”

Clarke chews on her bottom lip, and her leg begins to bounce. Bellamy doesn’t say anything, suppresses the smile that threatens to appear on his lips. He waits, patiently, as she gazes at him, almost like she’s debating whether or not what she’s going to say is stupid. Bellamy’s not sure she can ever come across the way to him, but he doesn’t disrupt her flow of thinking. He just sits there and waits for her.

“I used to paint. Draw, sketch, but mostly paint,” Clarke says quietly. “My dad loved it. Had all my artwork pinned up in his office.” She takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “I couldn’t even look at my supplies when he passed. Now, I barely have enough money to pay the bills, much less buy brushes.”

Bellamy scans around the darkness of her apartment. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, and he can make out a kitchen, and a hallway most likely leading to the two bedrooms and bathroom. He glances back at Clarke, wheels turning in his mind, and stands to his feet. Clarke’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion as Bellamy begins striding around her apartment, digging through the drawers of the end table and cabinets.

“What are you doing?” Clarke inquires, peering over the couch.

He doesn’t respond, mind focused on one thing and one thing only. One of the drawers in the kitchen is bombarded with all types of scraps that don’t belong in a place for cooking. Pens, notepads, sticky notes, stickers – Bellamy’s not sure if it’s Raven’s mess or Clarke’s, or both of theirs, but it’s not exactly his main concern. He wraps his fingers around one pen, scratching the tip against the corner of the notepad. It’s ink is weak, so he finds another, scratches it across the previous scribble.

Satisfied with its pigmentation, he tucks the pen behind his ear and grabs the notepad. Waltzing back over the couch, he plants himself on the cushion and hands her the notepad. Clarke squints at him, hesitantly taking the stack of paper from him. Once in her grasp, he untucks the pen from his ear, and holds it out to Clarke.

“It’s not paint and a brush,” Bellamy says, “But it’s something.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, the ghost of a smile on her face. “You want me to draw for you? For free?”

“I can pay you in praise.”

She sinks further into the cushion. “I haven’t drawn in years, I don’t think. I’m probably rusty.”

Bellamy shrugs, outstretching the pen a little further to her. “Let’s see.”

Clarke bites down on her lip, hesitantly accepting the pen from Bellamy. He relaxes into the couch, their eyes locked, wondering who is going to crack first. Bellamy knows it won’t be him. If he crumbles, she gets a free pass. And all he wants is for her to rise, to be built up higher than he can ever be. And maybe, just maybe, this could be the start that she needs. Finding herself beyond the bottle.

She cracks first – her eyes glance down to the notepad, and she brings the tip of the pen to its surface. Soon enough, she’s scribbling across the paper, tongue poking out of the side of her cheek in concentration. Bellamy finds himself smiling, but every time she glances up at him, he finds his expression morphing back into something stoic. But he can’t help it when she looks away. Her hair falls over her face in curtains, everything else about her in full focus mode. Her eyes narrowed into the notepad, her hand swirling around the page. It’s a side of Clarke he’s never seen, one that he’s fully relishing in.

Sunlight streams through the window in her living room by the time she’s finished. Bellamy’s surprised that he’s not tired, not even in the slightest. A late night and early morning is a bad combination for anyone, but when Clarke looks up at him, gaze settled and out of breath, it’s like he’s been rejuvenated. She hugs the notepad to her chest, and arches her back away from him.

“Close your eyes,” Clarke orders. Bellamy allows his eyes to flutter closed. He hears her shift a little, before she says, “Open.”

Bellamy opens his eyes, staring at the notepad Clarke’s turned over to face him. Sprawled out in pen is him, all details captured with immense precision. The sharpness of his jaw to the curls a top of his head, even every freckle jotted down with a purpose. He stares at it, nearly bewildered and completely speechless.

“I guess I still got it,” Clarke professes smugly.

Her smugness breaks him from his spell. He looks up at her, and shrugs, “I’ve seen better.”

Clarke winds back her notepad to swat it at him, Bellamy holding up his hands in mock defense. He smirks as Clarke’s features soften, her eyes fleeing to the notepad and then back at him. “Do you like it?”

“Clarke, it looks more like me than I do,” Bellamy insists. Her eyes lock with his, and he almost feels like he’s out of breath. He swallows some air into his lungs. “Honestly, Clarke. I love it.”

The wind is taken out of him with that sentence alone. For a million and one reasons, he’s sure. None of which are appropriate for a sponsor, much less a sober companion to have with someone like Clarke. But he’ll be damned if he let something like that stop him from being there for her. Not when they’re forty two days in. Not when she needs him.

* * *

Bellamy stumbles into Clarke’s workplace less than three days later. It’s his day off, and he spends the whole day running around town to find these art supplies. He’s no artist, not by a long shot, but damn, he’s got to know the basics. A canvas, brushes, paint – it’s pretty self-explanatory. But it takes him hours, hellbent on finding the perfect ones for her. She’s no amateur, and the last thing he wants is for her to think she’s one.

Clarke catches him waiting for her, a sparkle in his eye and his hands behind his back. She furrows her eyebrows in confusion, but an amused smirk tickles at her lips. She zips up her coat, covering up her clerk uniform as she strides over to him. Her ponytail swings behind her, messy and disheveled after an eight hour shift, and there’s bags under her eyes, but all Bellamy can feel is the giddiness in his chest that bubbles up in his chest as she comes closer.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Clarke teases, crossing her arms over her chest.

Bellamy feigns innocence, “I just needed some groceries, actually.”

“Oh, that’s a shame, because the store’s closed now.”

“Damn. Guess I’m stuck here talking to you.”

Clarke’s smirk twitches into a relieved smile. It’s so quick, Bellamy almost misses it before it morphs back into her teasing expression. However, he doesn’t miss the way his cheeks heat at the sight.

Bellamy coughs, trying to blame the bright red of his cheeks on the cold air that lingers between them. He removes his hand from behind his back, unveiling the plastic bag chalk full of art supplies. Clarke tiptoes closer, a bit weary – but she doesn’t take the bag from him. She leans forward, bending her body in half and peering into the plastic bag. Her eyes narrow, just for a moment, before she shoots straight up.

“Bellamy, you didn’t.” Clarke sighs, exasperation written all over her features.

“Are they not the right ones?” Bellamy frowns, “I have the receipt.”

“No, no it’s not that. These are expensive. It’s too much.”

“I wouldn’t have bought them if they were going to break the bank.”

Something inside him feels like that’s a total lie. Clarke nearly calls him out on it, he can almost physically see the sentence form on her tongue. But the longer she stares at him, the words seem to die on her tongue. The small smile on her face could be a pleasantry, an exchange as to not hurt his feelings, but when she steps forward and places her hand on his shoulder – he knows it’s something more. She presses a kiss on his cheek, short and sweet, but even when she pulls away, he can feel her as if she’s still there.

Clarke grips her shoulder, blinks away tears. “I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you as my sponsor.”

_Sponsor_. Right. He’s not new to the term, but the clenching of his chest is unfamiliar.

Bellamy forces a smirk, “Thank your unearthly sobs. You sounded like a hyena behind that damn dumpster.”

Clarke laughs, hand dropping back to her side. She glances around at the emptying parking lot, last minute customers and employees whisking past the two of them to their vehicles. The smile on her face stays fond, but he can see the wheels turning in her brain. He just watches, waiting for her to reveal whatever bright idea she has to him, leaning against the pillar.

When her gaze lands back on him, her blue eyes twinkle with an idea. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Not much,” Bellamy shrugs. He probably would have ended up at _The Dropship_ , not that he’s going to tell her that. “You have something in mind?”

A mischievous smile flickers across Clarke’s face, but before he can call her on it, her fingers are wrapped around his wrist, and she’s dragging him in the opposite direction. And he just lets her, because anywhere she guides him is better than his original plan. Plus, he admires the way her ponytail bobs in determination, and how when she turns back to look at him, the grin on her face is worth not just the trouble of the day, but his hardships of the year.

A short bus ride takes them just outside of the city. There’s a lot more greenery than Bellamy’s seen in years, but Clarke navigates the path like she’s ingrained into it. She never lets go of Bellamy’s wrist, not once, stomping over sticks and dodging branches with relative ease, prompting him to do the same. He’s a little – a lot – lost, especially in the darkness of the night. There’s a couple streetlights, but not many, most of the illumination coming from the stars above.

But he lets Clarke lead him regardless. Eventually, when their path becomes a little more narrow, her hand travels down from his wrist. She doesn’t look back as her fingers intertwine with his, her grip firm and tight. His breath hitches as her thumb grazes his, comforting and assuring, and it’s almost like the roles are reversed for a moment. Like she’s the one leading him, saving him, and it’s scarier than the last five years of his life combined. But nobody says anything, and all that fills his ears is the low whistle of crickets and the drum of his heart.

A clearing comes up, a large lake filling Bellamy’s vision. Clarke lets go of his hand, tiptoeing further into the grass towards the lake. Bellamy keeps close, following behind as she prances in the grass. A smile creeps up on his face, watching as she sinks into the grass. He stands as she kicks off her shoes and socks, disregarding them as her toes tickle the grass, her gaze cemented on the dim, sparkling lake before them.

“It’s the beginning of March,” Bellamy points out. “Your toes are going to fall off.”

Clarke giggles, acknowledging his effort at a joke but doesn’t turn to stare at him. She tilts her head to the side, admitting the twinkle of the lake. She takes a deep breath in, inhaling the scent of nature. Bellamy’s eyes never drift from her, not for a moment.

“I used to live near here,” Clarke breaks the silence, her voice quiet and fond. “My dad would take me here a lot. He’d fish, and I’d paint.”

Something inside him takes it as a cue. Bellamy etches forward, kneeling beside her in the grass. He sets down the bag of supplies before the two of them, and keeps his eyes on her. Clarke doesn’t mention her past much. There was the brief introduction when she formally met him, but she doesn’t talk in AA and she doesn’t say much about herself when it’s just the two of them. Granted, they haven’t had quite many moments like this.

Bellamy doesn’t move, fearful to startle her train of thought. It takes her a moment, but she eventually tears her gaze away from the lake to plop the plastic bag into her lap. She rummages through it, retrieving some of the bottled paints and one of the smaller canvases. Bellamy can’t make out the color of the paints, and he’s not sure if Clarke can either, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She rids them of their plastic coverings, and squirts one blob of color onto the blank canvas before retrieving a brush from the bag.

Her brush moves like her mind does. It’s swift, calculated – she has a vision. Bellamy can recall once thinking Clarke wasn’t a logical person, but he was incredibly wrong about that. Everything she does is with a purpose, whether ill intended or not. She knows what she’s doing, aware of every action that she makes, in whatever state she’s in. Everything has an end result, something she wants and works for. The colors look like mush to him, but not to her. She has the final product in her brain while her mind runs rampant with other thoughts.

Bellamy sinks into the grass, eyes flickering from the canvas to Clarke. She’s concentrated on the painting at hand, but her mind is working in two places at once. He can see it in how her face twists, her breath quickening. He scoots closer, not enough to touch her or disturb her, but enough to let her know that he’s there. That he plans to be there, for as long as she’ll allow him to be.

“My dad was my best friend,” Clarke says quietly, her brush lightly stroking up the side of the canvas. “It’s lame, I know, but it’s true. He was at every recital, took me to every art class, parent-teacher interview, you name it. He was the first person I came out as bisexual, too.” She pauses, chuckling bitterly. “He helped me tell my mother in a way that wouldn’t give her a heart attack.”

The image on the canvas is still a little blurry to him, but he can make out the lake. He’s not certain about the color, but he can make out the subtle dip in waves and the twinkle in the reflection of the water. He stares at it for a while, Clarke’s words sinking into his ears, before his gaze flickers back up to her.

“When he died–” Clarke chokes. Bellamy sits up straight, watches as she swallows down a lump in her throat. “When he died, it felt like I had nobody. Yes, I had my girlfriend and some friends, but my family was gone. My mom and I weren’t close, and she… She never said this, but I know she blamed his death on me.”

“You can’t think that’s true,” Bellamy keeps his voice soft, level, despite the disdain that climbs in his chest. Clarke doesn’t look at him, but he tilts his head, making sure she knows he’s staring right at her. “All these years, Clarke, you couldn’t have been living with that. You know it’s not true.”

“But it is,” Clarke’s voice cracks, and she finally looks up to stare at him. Even in the darkness of the night, he can see the tears collect in those blue eyes of hers. “I asked him to pick me up some more paints from the store before I ran out. I could have gone myself, but I’d insisted on finishing this painting–” Tears stream down her cheeks, and she shakes her head, trying to ground herself by looking at Bellamy. “He was on his way back, and it was raining and the car swerved–”

Bellamy pulls her into his chest as Clarke collapses into sobs. The canvas balanced in her lap, her fists find the scruff of his shirt. She clenches the fabric in her hands, pulling him closer to her. He holds her, one arm secured around her torso and his hand up on the back of her head. She sobs and cries something unearthly, worse than a couple of nights ago and more profound that the night he met her. So, he just holds her, shushing her as to not quiet her, but to let her know that he’s here for her.

This time, her sobs don’t subside gradually. They’re steady, years of contained emotions and guilt and self-doubt bubbling to the surface, exploding out of her like a volcano that’s long overdue of an eruption. She cries out the past three years, and Bellamy holds her, as they sit in the plain of this grass. Her body melts into his, morphing as one as her tears stain his shirt and her fists wrinkle the fabric.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He can barely hear himself amidst her sobs, but Clarke listens. She doesn’t lift her head, but her cries quiet, if only slightly. “Look at me, Clarke.”

It’s a struggle, but Clarke takes one final huff, forces her head up to look at him. Her eyes are thick and puffy, and her chest is still heaving with cries. Against his better judgement, Bellamy brings his hand up, glides his thumb across her cheek, catching a stray tear. Clarke leans into his touch, her lips pursing together to refrain from bursting out into another round of tears. He stares at her, amazed by her strength, by her essence by everything that she is.

“I don’t know one person stronger than you, Clarke,” Bellamy confesses. “You quit, cold-turkey because you wanted to be better. You’ve worked on being a better person.” His eyes lock with hers. “You’ll never be the person you were before your dad passed. But you will be the best version of yourself.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be anything,” Clarke cries. “I’m nothing without him.”

“You’re everything,” Bellamy blurts out. _Everything_. “Your dad would be so proud of you right now. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’ve come so far. You were his everything, and you will continue to be everything.”

Clarke blinks, a couple of remaining tears sliding down her cheeks. “Nothing in this world felt worse than losing my dad. So, I stopped feeling anything at all.” Her hand comes up, fingers ghosting against his cheeks. “And then, I met you.”

Bellamy shivers against her touch. It’s so soft, delicate, not like she’s afraid of breaking him, almost as if she’s marveling. He lets her fingers ghost down his cheek, gliding down his neck before her hand remains firm on his shoulder. Every part of his body feels her, wants to relish in her touch. His eyes are cemented on her, forever entranced in everything that is Clarke Griffin. Her blue eyes flicker up at his, and his gaze drops to her lips.

And yet, another part of him tells him: _I know better_.

He ducks his head, averting his gaze from her as he coughs. Clarke takes the cue, straightening against him. She still leans into his side, but her hand falls to her own lap, steadying the canvas. When he finally finds the courage to lift his head, Clarke’s gaze has dropped to her painting. Sensing his stare, she looks back up at him, a shaky smile resting across her features. He smiles weakly back.

“I wouldn’t give myself all the credit,” Bellamy teases. “I can’t force you to be better if you don’t want to be. You did this all on your own.”

Clarke’s mouth screws shut, her smile steadying firmly. She doesn’t say anything more, and Bellamy’s more than a bit grateful for that. A lot of her has an effect on him, but the words that flow from her mouth are a whole other story. But her eyes twinkle with gratitude, and Bellamy takes solace in that. Especially as her gaze shifts back towards the canvas, and she scoots away from him.

She finishes her piece that night. It doesn’t take as long as the sketch of him did, surprisingly, but he does recall her saying she was more gifted with paints. When Clarke shows him the finished product, a perfect view of the lake they’re perched at, he still can’t make out the colors. He’s sure she picked the right ones, he has an incredible amount of faith not only in her talent, but just in her. But it’s the glimmer of the lake – so realistic he could graze his hand across it – that Clarke shines in a way Bellamy feels blessed to have witnessed.

* * *

Bellamy wouldn’t consider much about his relationship with Clarke _gradual_. Their meeting was abrupt, and their jump from strangers to sober companions happened within an hour of her walking into _The Dropship_. But since that night at the lake, he doesn’t go at least forty eight hours without seeing her. For weeks on end, they’re basically attached at the hip. Whether she’s at his place, him at hers or AA meetings, shopping for groceries – they’re always together. He officially doesn’t consider Kane and Gina his only friends.

Granted, he’s not sure if he can call Clarke one. If she ever asked, he’d tell her she is – that’s what they appear to be. But he knows he’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, although he’ll refuse to ever admit it. The thought of losing Clarke is scarier than the memory of him trying to get sober and it’s not something he’s certain he can even approach. At the end of the day, he’s her sponsor. That’s what he will be.

But as they lounge on the couch of her apartment, stuffing their faces with takeout while a shitty movie plays on the television, he catches Clarke glance at him. It’s out of his peripheral, so he pretends he doesn’t notice her, keeps his gaze on the screen. But he can see her mind working, curiosity peaking. So, he waits, for whatever comes to that mind of hers to spill from her lips.

It doesn’t come, however, as the apartment door slams shut loudly behind them. Raven waltzes into the living room, exasperated and unable to read social cues. She collapses onto the couch, smack dab in between Bellamy and Clarke. She doesn’t even say her hello’s before she takes Bellamy’s box of Thai from his hand, chopsticks and all and begins shoveling his food into her mouth.

“Fuck, that was a long day,” Raven huffs.

Bellamy peers at Clarke, who’s evidently amused, but mouths a genuine “ _sorry_ ”regardless. Raven takes one more bite of his Thai before handing it back to him, leaning her head against the cushion.

“This is your motive for the night?” Raven squints in disgust.

“Is there a problem with Lifetime movies?” Clarke inquires with a smirk.

“Yeah, they suck, and you guys look like a fifty two year old married couple watching them on a Friday night.”

The blush that creeps up on Clarke’s cheeks is hard to ignore. Even as she ducks into her sweater, pretending to be invested in the movie, Bellamy sees it. He swallows down a lump in his throat, and tries to focus on the intruder that is Raven Reyes. She sighs deeply, swiveling her head around so that her cheek presses against the cushion as she peers at Bellamy. He draws back, hyperaware of how close she is.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Raven starts. “What type of recovering alcoholic spends most of their time at a bar?”

“ _Raven_ ,” Clarke hisses.

“No, it’s okay,” Bellamy shrugs, a playful smirk toying across his lips. He settles into the couch, gets himself comfortable. “I have a friend that works there. I get free drinks. It’s an alcoholics dream.” Clarke shoots him a look just as a chuckle escapes his lips. “Free water that is.”

“You don’t have access to water at home?” Raven quirks her brow.

“Well, my friend does work there. We work opposite hours, so it’s really the only time I get to see her.”

“You don’t disturb her from, you know, working?”

“No. I like to people watch, passes the time I would have spent at home.”

“Do you not get laid?”

“ _Raven_ ,” Clarke basically screeches this time.

“What?” Raven feigns innocence, hoisting herself up from the couch. “Bellamy’s hot. He could get laid. And he’s not screwing you.”

Bellamy smirks, soaking in Clarke’s pure embarrassment and Raven’s brashness in nothing but amusement. Clarke groans, rubbing her hand over her face in exasperation while Raven stares at the two of them, as if waiting for a formal explanation. Maybe he should find it insulting, that Raven thinks he doesn’t get laid – he does, for a matter of fact. But she did call him hot, and the redness on Clarke’s face makes all her comments worth it.

“That bar you spend your time at, it’s called _The Dropship_?” Raven presses. Bellamy merely nods before she begins striding out of the room. “Great, I’m heading there tonight. Enjoy your date, losers.”

Clarke waits until she hears the door to Raven’s room shut behind her, before turning to Bellamy, her face still stained a bright shade of red. “I’m sorry. Raven’s nosy and has no filter.”

“It’s okay, it is an odd setup,” Bellamy admits nonchalantly. “How many recovering alcoholics do you know that spend their time at a bar?”

“Just you,” a small smile creeps on Clarke’s face. “I didn’t know why, though. You really people watch?”

“Not in much depth,” Bellamy chuckles. “I kind of just like being around people.”

“Raven’s right. You are a loser.”

“Hey, she called you one, too!”

A hearty laugh escapes her lips as Clarke leans her cheek against the cushion. The low hum of the Lifetime movie he’s already forgotten the name of sings in the background as Clarke gazes at him. He locks his gaze on her, which is what he tends to do without realizing. Not that it’s the worst thing in the world – staring at her is just as mesmerizing as staring at any of her artwork. Maybe more so.

It unlocks something in him that Bellamy’s had trouble containing. He’s never had a habit of pouring his heart out, not to Gina or to Kane unless heavily prompted. But even then, it’s staggered, planned. He says enough to satisfy them, to assure them he’s okay and to stop the questions. Clarke has never pried, and probably never will, but he finds his heart opening whenever she looks at him a certain way. And it’s difficult to contain.

“I never used to drink at bars,” Bellamy admits. “I’d drink at home. In the comfort of my room. Never around my mom or my sister, but they’d know.” Clarke sits up straight, ears perked. “When things got bad, they got bad fast. My mom would make sure I stayed in my room so I wouldn’t expose any of it to Octavia. I would drink alone just to feel nothing. And it worked so well, that when my crafty sister managed to see me…”

Bellamy closes his eyes, breathes out slowly. The words are caught in his throat, ready to spill, but restricted by a lack of airflow. He inhales sharply, trying to catch a breath. But he only feels the air fill his lungs when Clarke’s hand rests a top of his. His eyes flicker open, meeting Clarke’s wide, blue eyes.

“Hey,” Clarke whispers. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready to.”

“No,” Bellamy manages. He swallows down some moisture into his throat. “I’ve come to terms with it a long time ago. I blew up at my sister, telling her she wasted my life. It was…bad.” Exhaling shakily, he continues. “My drinking managed to get even worse after that. But I locked myself in my room, made sure I wouldn’t expose anyone to it.”

Her eyes are wide, intent on him. Bellamy doesn’t have trouble telling this story. He hasn’t told many people, but what got him to where he is something he’s more than come to terms with. The problem is looking at Clarke, knowing that nothing matters if not for her approval. He’d been strong for her up to this point, and now their professional barrier is scarred, if not torn apart completely. But the longer he stares, the more his heart opens for her.

“I didn’t start going to _The Dropship_ until after Gina and I broke up,” Bellamy informs her. “When we became just friends. I think I was about three months sober.” He tilts his head to the side, contemplative. “You’re eighty eight days sober, I must have been no more than ninety five.”

“You keep tally?” Clarke inquires, the lift of her brow more in amusement than teasing.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I have to, I’m your sober companion.”

“Or you’re just obsessed with me.”

He forces himself not to smile. Instead, he takes a shaky breath, settling further into the cushions of the couch. “I don’t know what it is. I just felt safe there, at _The Dropship_. I still do.”

Clarke scoots a little closer, nearly tucking into his side. “The bar gives you comfort. Because there’s people there, which is something you didn’t use to have.”

Bellamy smiles sadly, “You’re making me sound like a nerd.”

“It’s okay. My dad was my best friend, remember? We’re both nerds.” Clarke nudges him playfully. “Recovering alcoholic nerds, but nerds, nonetheless.”

A laugh escapes Bellamy’s throat, scratchy but hearty. When it settles, his gaze lingers on Clarke, suddenly much closer to him than she was before. He has to swallow down his saliva once more, just to bring some moisture back to his throat that’s already gone dry once again. He forces himself to keep his eyes locked on hers, which normally isn’t an issue. Except when his gaze threatens to drop to her lips, just inches away from him.

He could have sworn Clarke started leaning it. But then he blinks, or maybe he closes his eyes to prepare for it, but when they’re open again, the sound of a door slamming shut jolts Clarke backwards. His heart pounds, not because of the loud sound or the way Clarke was startled, but because his throat manages to go dry again. His heart drops to the pit of his chest, and he somehow struggles to breath. He was inches away from kissing Clarke, the woman that he’s sponsoring.

Raven strides in, all dressed up. She doesn’t even glance at the two of them on the couch, giving Clarke ample time to scoot back to her original position on the couch. She turns her attention back to the television, and Bellamy forces himself to do the same. Although, nothing that displays across the screen absorbs into his mind. He’s sure Raven’s shuffling about behind them, or maybe even saying something, but there’s too much heat in his ears for him to retain anything.

He does hear Raven yell, however, “I hope this place is worth it. _I’m_ surely getting laid tonight.”

* * *

Gina snorts when he tells her. The bar is littered with people, as it usually is on a Saturday night. She’s got her hands full with customers, and while she always makes sure she says her hello’s to him, the look on his face when he entered had her piling the rush on Murphy. Bellamy would have felt bad, if she had put the work on anyone else that wasn’t Murphy, but he was also relived to have her attention. Until she did that.

“I didn’t expect you to be surprised,” Bellamy snarls. “But you could have pretended to be.”

“Why lie?” Gina smirks, handing him his regularly scheduled glass of water. “I knew you were in love with her.”

“In love,” Bellamy tries the words on his tongue, hates how right they feel. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“I’m not jumping to anything. They’re standing here right in front of you.”

Bellamy sighs deeply, taking a sip of his glass of water. He lets the cool liquid travel down his throat, bringing some moisture to his mouth. He hasn’t seen Clarke since he left her apartment last night, but they’d been texting – like they have for nearly a month and a half straight. Always in constant contact, always reminding Bellamy just how deep in this that he is with her.

The pitiful expression that rests across Gina’s expression makes him avert his gaze from her. He stares down at the water, swirling neatly in the glass. It comes to a still, so tranquil that Bellamy’s stomach churns. He palms the top of the glass, circling the glass around so that the water swishes in short, incomplete waves. It almost reminds him of the lake, if he thinks too hard.

Gina leans against the counter. “I’m no expert on all this, Bellamy. It’s part of why we ended things.” Bellamy lifts his head up to look at her. “But I am your friend. And I know you. You haven’t felt anything for anyone in years.”

“Why did it have to be her?” Bellamy groans, rubbing his face against his hand in exasperation. “I know there’s technically no rules, but this feels fucking illegal.”

“Again, I don’t know how this works. And I think you know that.” Gina straightens, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m here to give you advice as a friend. But you know the person you should be speaking to about ethics is your own sponsor.”

Bellamy huffs, like he’s trying to contain a laugh. It’s comical, really, to think he would take to Kane about this. For all his wisdom, Kane sticks to the goddamn book. And sometimes, Bellamy admires it, but not in this case. Not when it comes to Clarke. He takes a sip of his water, eyes flickering over the rim to meet Gina, who stares back disapprovingly.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear, Bellamy,” Gina sighs. “But don’t wait this out. You’re going to spiral.”

He sets his glass down, his chest heaving up, rising slowly. “You’re right. I haven’t felt this way about anyone in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it.”

“Bellamy, she could always find another sober companion–”

“She has one. It’s me. And I won’t do anything to fuck it up.”

Gina doesn’t look like she believes him, but she lets it go anyways, tells him she has to return to her customers. Bellamy nods, lets her go, returns to watching the drunk partygoers make fools of themselves on the dancefloor, just because they can. He’s never felt so envious watching other people drink their cares away and party without any worries. Missing that life always meant missing the solitude, the isolation.

Bellamy’s always been fearful of going back to that; isolation, being alone. It what plants him here on most nights, albeit not nearly as much since he’s met Clarke. He’s not only her sober companion, he’s her friend, and he doesn’t want to risk any of that. Not when she’s this fresh in her recovery. He doesn’t need to hear from Kane what he already knows he’s going to say. Not when Bellamy’s already made up his own mind.

* * *

Clarke’s been sober for six months, Bellamy for just over a five and a half years. It’s not momentous to him, but it should be for Clarke. He tells her weeks in advance to take that Friday off work so he can cook the both of them a fancy dinner and substitute the fancy wine for sparkling water. She brushes him off with a laugh, but the twinkle in her eyes only encourages him more.

Balancing his phone in between his shoulder and his ear, Bellamy stirs the pasta over in the stove, trying to listen to Kane while not getting annoyed. “How long does pasta take to boil?”

“Not long, Bellamy,” Kane chuckles. “Do you eat when I’m not around to feed you?”

“Not anything fancy. Mostly sandwiches or eggs. I haven’t made pasta since I would cook dinner for Octavia.”

Kane pauses, and Bellamy nearly curses himself for bringing it up. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your sister? Six years now?”

“She’s alright,” Bellamy insists with a sigh. “I check her Facebook. She’s getting married.”

“Oh, Bellamy. I’m sorry.”

“What? Why? I’m happy for her.”

Bellamy’s not stupid; he didn’t say he received an invitation to the wedding. And he most certainly didn’t. That’s why Kane is apologetic. Not that he hadn’t checked his mailbox more often this week, but nothing was there except what always is – bills. He would be disappointed that his little sister hadn’t considered him in her wedding plans, but it’s not like he has anyone to blame but himself. He fucked things up, and if she wanted to accept his apology for that, she would have when he tried with her years ago.

Before Kane can say anything more to irritate him, Bellamy switches over to the other pot on the stove. “And I can boil pasta, Kane. It’s the sauce that’s fucking me over. How much garlic is enough garlic?”

Fortunately, Kane takes the cue. He spiels his knowledge on recipes, and Bellamy lets his mind seep back to what’s important right now. Clarke’s been sober for six months, and that’s a substantial accomplishment all on its own. But she’s also become one of his closest friends, and the most important person in his life. He wants this night to reflect that. And if that means he has to listen to Kane drown on and on about his extensive culinary knowledge, he’ll suffer through it for the night.

Bellamy thanks Kane before he hangs up, setting the pasta into bowls and placing it on the already made table. His apartment is small, and his dining table definitely reflects that, but it’s big enough for the two of them. He checks his watch, 6:47pm. Setting the glasses beside their respective plates, Bellamy places the bottle of sparkling water Gina recommended at the center of the table. He steps back, just to marvel at his work and lets his anxieties subside.

After all, this is just a night between two sober friends. The dinner setup may fool the blind eye, but Bellamy knows what this is. He’s suppressed his feelings for Clarke for this long. It’s been months, and he’s made no moves beyond friendship. He ignores the tightening of his chest and the crackle of his heart when he can’t kiss her or hold her hand, but sometimes he gets to hold her. And he always gets to be around her, she’s the first person he calls whenever he needs anything. That’s the person he wants to be for her, even if that’s all he could ever be.

Around seven, Clarke still hasn’t shown up at his door. He checks, just in case she knocks and he didn’t hear, but nobody is standing outside. He doesn’t panic until 7:32, when she’s still not here. There’s no missed calls or texts on his phone, and their last exchange just the morning of was her confirming that she’d be here. His thumbs punch into his keyboard, his chest tightening in an unearthly way, although he tries to be lighthearted.

[Bellamy Blake: 7:33pm]: _I’m offended you forgot our dinner plans._

It delivers, but she doesn’t read it. Bellamy waits exactly ten minutes, has to physically count down before he allows himself to send another text.

[Bellamy Blake: 7:43pm]: _Hey, just let me know you’re okay?_

By eight o’clock with no response, Bellamy’s already on his way to her apartment. He calls an Uber, and is there within fifteen minutes, banging on her apartment door. The panic that floods his chest is probably incurable at this point, with sweat slicked to his forehead from all the sprinting he’s done. He may have left the stove on, he’s not sure, but he doesn’t really care. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, that he knows what Clarke is doing, and it makes him so nauseous he wants to vomit in the middle of this hallway.

Raven opens the door, and he’s no more relieved. “Bellamy? What are you doing here?”

“Clarke,” Bellamy breathes. “She’s not answering her phone. Where is she?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Raven’s calmness should help him, but it doesn’t. “Her mom came into town. Took her to dinner an hour or two ago.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows furrow together, “Why wouldn’t she tell me? We had plans. I thought she–”

He cuts himself off. The last thing he wants is to put that negativity out, especially when Clarke’s been doing well. But fuck, he was fucking worried. He slumps against the doorframe, taking the opportunity to catch his breath. Maybe part of him should be angry that Clarke stood him up after they’d been planning this dinner for weeks. He could be irritated, or upset, but he’s just fucking relieved.

“You can stay,” Raven offers. “Wait for her here. She probably won’t stay with her mom for long, Lord knows how she is.” She grabs her coat off the hook and throws it over her shoulders. “Plus, I was going to go see your cute friend at _The Dropship_. Make yourself at home.”

Maybe Bellamy should catch that Raven’s trying to fuck Gina, but his mind is all too consumed with Clarke to care. He only nods, trudging past Raven to collapse on her couch. He hopes the stove is turned off, because when Raven leaves, he takes his phone off of silent and drifts off to sleep. It barely works, because his mind is still racing with Clarke, but he closes his eyes and pretends to feel the comfort of sleep, waiting for Clarke to walk through the door.

The second Bellamy hears the door open, he sits up straight on the couch. Clarke jumps back, startled by his presence. He would think she’d look guilty or apologetic, but she’s just tired. When she realizes it’s him, her fatigue morphs into irritation. Swallowing down a lump in his throat, Bellamy stands to his feet as Clarke quietly closes the door behind her.

“Raven let me in,” Bellamy explains. Clarke’s eyes glaze over him. “How did it go with your mom?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Clarke snaps.

Bellamy nods slowly, trying to be understanding, trying to ignore the pang in his chest. “That’s alright. I’m here if you do.”

“You should go home, Bellamy. It’s late.”

“It’s only nine.”

“I don’t have the energy to be around anyone after the night I had with my mother.”

“Right, I understand,” Bellamy bites down on his lip. “I’ll pack up the pasta and bring it to you tomorrow.”

Clarke squints at him, confused. He waits for it to dawn on her, his own irritation threatening to bubble to the surface. Her eyes widen moments later, and she smacks her palm against her forehead, sighing deeply.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Bellamy.” Clarke states. She looks at him with tired eyes. “I had no idea my mom was coming into town. It kind of threw me for a loop.”

“That’s okay,” Bellamy walks around the couch, his irritation melting away almost instantly. Until Clarke steps away from him, the closer that he gets. She shields herself, almost as if she’s going to take off her coat but then decides against it. He halts, mid-step and he knows. “What did you drink?”

Clarke lets out a humorless laugh. “What are you talking about–”

“Don’t,” Bellamy snaps. “What did you drink, Clarke?”

It’s probably on her breath. She hadn’t expected to come home to see him there, probably didn’t think she needed to make an effort to hide it. Her shortness is something she never is with him, and she’s never forgetful. The sinking feeling in his chest is the biggest indicator. Every part of him wants to be wrong, but when his eyes lock with hers, he knows.

“A glass of wine,” Clarke admits sheepishly. She surges forward, “but that’s it. Just to get my mom off my back.”

“Off your back?” Bellamy scoffs. “There’s no way she was forcing alcohol down your throat, Clarke.”

“Okay, so just to drown her out a bit! It was one glass, Bellamy, that’s it.”

“It’s not just one glass for us, Clarke! You know that.”

“But that’s all it’s going to be,” Clarke takes his hand in hers, places it on her chest. Bellamy’s breath hitches, and he’s not sure if he can feel his own heart beating or hers, or both. “Come on, you know me, Bellamy. I’m six months sober today. One glass at dinner with my narcissistic mother doesn’t ruin all of that, does it?”

Bellamy peers down at her, her pleading eyes begging him for forgiveness. She’s right, she’d been doing so well this past year. Six months of nothing, not even a drop. And he doesn’t want to take that away from her. But there’s a large part of him that knows he can’t be her friend here. He’s her sober companion, her sponsor. It would be doing her a disservice to brush this off, to say that it’s okay.

And that kills him all the same. It was one thing to think that she’s drunk, or had a drink. But to know, to have to face the consequences with her is all the more damning. If she were anybody else, maybe he could do this. Maybe he could separate his feelings from his responsibility to her. But he can’t. And he should have realized that long ago.

“I’m staying here tonight,” Bellamy settles on. “On the couch.”

Clarke drops his hand, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do. If you have the urge to drink more, you can just wake me and we’ll talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Bellamy. I want to pretend it never happened.”

“You can’t do that, Clarke. Relapsing is normal, but we just have to make sure it’s not a habit–”

She steps away from her, betrayal lacing her features. “I’m not your fucking child, Bellamy. You’re supposed to be my friend, you’re supposed to trust me.”

Bellamy swallows down a lump that threatens to form in his throat. “I am your friend. But I’m also your sponsor.”

He chose to be oblivious to it before, but it’s impossible now. Clarke stands before him, bewildered, relapsed and betrayed and it’s his fault. He couldn’t separate his responsibility from his feelings for her sooner, and now he has to stick with one or the other. And if he has to sacrifice their friendship to make sure that she stays sober, he’ll do that. It couldn’t hurt any more than the way she’s looking at him right now.

Clarke scoffs, but doesn’t say anything as she pushes past him. He closes his eyes, trying to control his breath. The door slams behind him, and he doesn’t move. He stills, tries to calm down his accelerating heart rate, not burst into tears in the middle of Clarke’s living room. He has to be okay, for the both of them. He has to ignore his own urge for a drink.

In the morning, Raven’s in the kitchen brewing coffee. He straightens on the couch, his back aching from the uncomfortable position and his eyes heavy from making sure Clarke didn’t slip past him in the night. Sleep took over him, though, because he passed out sometime when Raven came home. He’s not sure what time, but he recalls waking up every other hour, just to make sure Clarke’s coat and shoes were still tucked by the door.

“Clarke went to work,” Raven tells him, handing him his own mug of coffee. “Are you okay?”

Bellamy holds the mug, lets the warmth of the coffee seep into his skin. He brings the mug to his lips, taking a sip of the beverage before setting it down slowly. It doesn’t matter if he’s not okay. Clarke’s the one that needs to be okay.

* * *

Clarke doesn’t return his text messages or his calls. He’s not sure if he should apologize or give her some space, but none of it soothes his constant worry that she’s somewhere she shouldn’t be. He got Raven’s number before he left that morning, but that was a week ago, and all Raven says is that she only leaves for work. It should be comforting, to know that Clarke’s at home and Raven’s scoping out for any alcohol she may bring in, but Bellamy can’t ignore the sinking feeling forever embedded in his chest.

So, he shows up to her work. Not to talk to her, but just to make sure she’s okay. When he doesn’t see her at any of the cash registers, he goes straight to the manager’s office and asks for her. After some bargaining and a lot of yelling, he tells Bellamy that Clarke hasn’t been in to work for days. And Bellamy’s world collapses around him.

“Bellamy,” he’s not sure how he managed to get to Kane’s house. But he’s standing here, at his doorstep, pale and unable to breath. “Bellamy, what happened?”

“I failed,” Bellamy mumbles. “I fucked up. I fucked her up.”

Kane ushers Bellamy inside, concern etched into his feature. Bellamy can barely register any of it, just feels Kane guiding him towards the couch. His chest is collapsing and he’s short for breath, but he feels himself sink against the cushions, feels Kane kneeling before him. If he could take a look at Kane, he’d see the immense worry etched into his brow, but all he can do is bury his head in his hands, and think of another person’s life he just fucked up.

Bellamy screws his eyes shut, clasping his hands over his mouth. He’s never been one for prayer, never had faith in the Universe doing anything he didn’t work his ass off for, but today he pleads with whatever higher power to bring her home okay. He whispers, mumbles, murmurs to himself that Clarke is okay, she doesn’t need to be perfect, just okay, just still fucking breathing. It’s all he’s asking for.

“Bellamy, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” Kane says softly. “Did you have a drink?”

“No, Clarke did,” Bellamy croaks. “And now she’s not showing up to work. Raven said she only comes home after her shift is supposed to be done which is in…” He checks his watch, breathes out shakily. “Three fucking hours.”

Kane maneuvers over to the couch, sinking into the cushion beside Bellamy. He places his arm around him, tightens his grip on his shoulder. “Bellamy, this is not your fault.”

“Of course it is. I had one fucking job, and I couldn’t even do that.”

“It is your job to support Clarke. And that’s all you’ve been doing, for six months.”

Bellamy lifts his head, looking at Kane through teary eyes. The revelation is on his tongue, that he’d been more friend that support, that he’d been way more than both. That if something happens to Clarke, it’s not just on his conscious as her sponsor or even as her friend. God forbid, Clarke is somewhere she shouldn’t be, his world collapses. The one that he just rebuilt, is done. This is something he won’t be able to recover from.

Losing his family was his fault. Bellamy knows that. Maybe they weren’t as helpful as they could have been when they found out about his addiction, but Octavia was a teenager. She didn’t know better. And his mother didn’t know him at all. He couldn’t expect much from them, but they expected everything at him. And that failure has haunted him all these years, but it’s something he’s come to terms with. They’re okay, living their lives, and that’s all that matters. Even if they’re doing it all without him.

But it’s not an option for him to lose Clarke. There’s no path to recovery from losing Clarke, not when she’s spiraling deeper into the addiction he was supposed to guide her through. This would be his fault, too, this would be _on him_. And he doesn’t think he could ever come to terms with letting her down. In fact, he doesn’t think he could ever forgive himself if something happened to her.

“You are not the final factor in her drinking,” Kane insists. “She is lucky to have you as a sponsor, as a friend. But at the end of the day, her decisions are her decisions. They are no reflection on you.”

Anger fuses inside of Bellamy’s chest. He stands to his feet, shaking his head as he stares down at his own sponsor, at his own friend. “You don’t understand, Kane. If something happens to her, it’s on me.”

“And why would you think that?” Kane sighs. “You’ve done everything in your power to keep her on the right track. But at the end of the day, you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

“She does! She does want to be saved,” Bellamy scowls. “And it’s my responsibility to–”

He cuts himself off. The look of recognition that falls over Kane’s face midsentence is enough to quiet Bellamy. He dug this hole himself, and by the look on Kane’s face, he’s going to let him know it. And honestly, he doesn’t want to hear it. He just wants to get ahold of Clarke. He just wants to know that she’s okay.

Bellamy turns to march out the door, but Kane stands to his feet, grabbing his wrist. He forces Bellamy around to look at him, although he tries to avert his gaze. They’re both quiet, the only motion between them being the sound of their intense breathing. Knowing he won’t be getting out of this without a couple choice words, Bellamy forces himself to stare at Kane.

“You think you can save her,” Kane seethes. His grip tightens on Bellamy’s wrist. “You’re not here to save anyone, Bellamy. That’s not fair to you, or to her.”

“She’s still got people, a life,” Bellamy hisses back, trying to ignore the way his eyes prick with tears. “Her mother still talks to her for fuck sakes. I can’t let her throw it all away–”

“They will all be there for her when she recovers–”

“They weren’t for me.”

Kane loosens his grip on Bellamy’s wrist. Bellamy feels the tears threatening to overflow, and he just might let him, because nobody’s looked at him the way Kane has in a while. The sympathy mixed with pity, he hates that fucking look. It’s been a long time since he’s seen it, and he can’t fucking stand it. He doesn’t want pity, he wants Clarke not to fall into the same hole that he did.

“She’s got people, Kane,” Bellamy whispers, afraid if he says it any louder, he’ll crumble. “Raven, her mother, her co-workers. They’re still in her life. I can’t have her end up like me. With no family and nobody.”

“Clarke was an alcoholic before she met you, Bellamy,” Kane says carefully. “You said she’d been drinking for three years straight. You were on and off for over a year. You can’t compare your recovery to hers.”

“I need her to be okay, Kane. Just like you want me to be okay–”

“Bellamy, I care about you _immensely_. You’ll always have me. And if you were to relapse, I would be devastated. But we’d work through it.”

“And I can work through it with Clarke. I just have to find her.”

“I don’t doubt you’re an amazing sponsor,” Kane starts, titling his head to the side. “But Clarke’s more than a sober companion, and she’s more than a friend. Isn’t she?”

Bellamy screws his lips shut. He bites down on his tongue, his teeth first grazing over the skin before sinking into it, drawing blood. When those stray tears fall over his eyelids, he can’t help it. He lets them fall, hot trails staining his cheeks. And when Kane pulls him in for a hug, he lets him, as he sobs into his shoulder. For himself, for the family lost, but mostly for Clarke. For all the love and faith he has in her, for his desperate, uncontrollable need for her to be okay.

* * *

Bellamy repeats the process of calling and texting Clarke. He even calls Raven, lets her know Clarke hasn’t been to work. After making sure she promises to let him know when she comes home, Kane lets him pass out on his couch. He doesn’t trust himself to go home, and frankly, neither does Kane. The urge to drink, the urge to not feel has never been so strong than it that very moment.

His eyes blink open to the brightness of his phone screen, accompanied by the blare of his ringtone. Kane’s sitting on the chair opposite from him, his gaze darting to Bellamy’s phone. Bellamy sits up, lurching for the phone and bringing it to his ear, all before he can even check who’s calling him.

“Hello?” Bellamy breathes.

“Bellamy, it’s Raven,” she sounds just as out of breath as he is. “Clarke didn’t come home. But she called me.” He hears her take a deep, shaky breath. “Told me to come out to the bar with her.”

“The bar? What bar?” Bellamy stands to his feet, tucking his phone in between his ear and shoulder, already heading for the door.

“She said _The Dropship_.”

He breathes out a sigh of relief as he slips on his shoes. “It’s okay, Gina won’t serve her.”

“That’s the thing. Gina’s here with me.”

Saying his heart fell into the pits of his stomach would be an understatement. His heart disintegrates, bursting into a million tiny pieces and slicing up his insides. The nausea that overwhelms him makes him light-headed, and it’s not enough for the world to be crumbling, but the Universe he so profusely pleaded for help for.

He looks back at Kane, who’s now at his feet. Kane stares at him, lips pursed in a tight line. Nobody can stop Bellamy from going after her, not even his sponsor. So, he gives him a curt nod, a silent agreeance that he’ll be here for him when he returns. Bellamy mouths a thank you, unsure about how any part of him is able to move, and sprints out the door.

* * *

_The Dropship_ isn’t as crowded as he anticipates, but even if it were, Bellamy would have been able to spot Clarke from miles away. Her flicker of blonde hair swings past her as she props up on the counter of the bar, hips swaying and face flushed red. In her hand, a glass of something brown, and yellow-ish, maybe scotch, half-finished. Bellamy charges past the people in his way, making a bee-line for the counter, probably knocking some people down in the process.

“Clarke!” Bellamy bellows. His palms smack against the marble. “Clarke, get down. Let me take you home!”

Clarke either doesn’t hear him or pretends not to. The music she’s dancing to is offbeat, her hair disheveled and one heel completely missing. Bellamy reaches for her wrist, just to bring her down to his level, but she side-steps out of the way. A loud chorus of people cheer her on, increasing his irritation and anxiety, as he reaches for her again, to no avail.

“Another one!” Clarke shouts across the bar.

Back previously turned to them, Murphy swivels around, pouring another glass. Just as he hands it to Clarke, Bellamy leaps up, smacking the glass out of his hand before it can reach Clarke’s fingertips. It falls to the ground, shattering into a million tiny pieces.

“Hey!” Murphy growls. “You’re going to have to pay for that.”

“You can’t serve to people who are obviously over the limit,” Bellamy scowls. “And you know better than to serve to her.”

A gnarly smirk grows across Murphy’s face. “I think blondie can make her own decisions. Maybe choose a path that leads home with me at the end of the night–”

Murphy isn’t able to finish his sentence before Bellamy’s fist collides with the side of his face. He hears the crack, can feel the crunch of his knuckles as Murphy stumbles back. Clarke gasps, obviously taken about by Bellamy’s outburst. She steps back, trying to distance herself from Murphy as blood pours from his nose. The one heel she has on slips off the counter, and she nearly falls to the ground, if not for Bellamy catching her bridal style in his arms.

Clarke accepts defeat at this point, curling into Bellamy. She groans, probably out of an impending headache or embarrassment. Not that he cares. She’s here, in his arms, and he’s going to take her home. She’s going to be okay. He glances down at her, her blonde waves matted to her forehead, cheeks flushed pink and eyes drifting closed as she cuddles into him. _She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay._

“Get the fuck out of here!” Murphy shouts. “And don’t fucking come back!”

Bellamy doesn’t have to be told twice. He carries Clarke out of the bar, and doesn’t even bother calling for an Uber. He walks her back to his place, Clarke nearly asleep in his arms. The stares don’t phase him, because the only thing he’s looking at is the street before him and Clarke below him. He manages to get her up to his apartment, lays her on his bed, just like the first night he met her.

This time, he expects her to pass out right away. But the minute she sinks into his bed, her eyes blink open, albeit half-lidded. He looks down at her as she twists around on his mattress, trying to be comfortable. Bellamy just watches, his throat going dry. She sighs deeply, finally looking up at him. It’s now, even in the darkness of the room, that he can spot the shimmer in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Bellamy,” Clarke croaks. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Bellamy says softly. “I understand. You’re going to be okay.”

“I fucked it all up. My relationship with my mother, my life, my sobriety. I fucked everything up with you.”

“Clarke, you could never fuck anything up with me.”

Bellamy sinks down into the mattress beside her, running his hand through her hair. Clarke leans into his touch, her hot face warming his hand. He sighs inwardly, brushing his thumb against her cheek. She whimpers into his touch, eyes blinking up to look at him. He stares down at her, reassuring her, promising her, he’s going to be there. This must sink into her, because she sits up, so close they’re just inches away.

“Bellamy,” Clarke rasps. “I’m going to be better.”

“I know you will,” Bellamy smiles sadly.

“For you.”

“You should be doing it for you.”

“I want to do it for you.”

He blinks, knows these are drunken words slurring from her mouth. She squishes her opposite cheek against her shoulder, just gazing at him. She blinks, too, a couple of times, but their eyes never detach from one another. His hand is still on her cheek, and he knows he should take it away from her. But he can’t move.

Clarke leans in, and before he knows it, her lips brush against hers. But instead of tasting the softness of her lips or the chapstick she’s coated on, all his tongue recognizes is the familiarity of scotch.

This isn’t right, none of this is okay, she’s not okay and neither is he.

Bellamy jerks back, hand falling from her cheek to his side. Clarke looks taken aback, like she’s done something wrong and all Bellamy can do is try and control his breathing. His chest constricts and heaves and something inside him pleads for forgiveness. He stares at her, bewildered and so fucking guilty for letting it get this far.

He stands to his feet, slow and shaky, but manages. Clarke sinks back into the bed, her back pressing into the mattress, but her eyes follow him. Bellamy uses the back of his hand to wipe any contents of alcohol from his lips. When he stares back at Clarke, her eyes are still on him, blinking slowly. Her cheeks are still flushed, but she’s calmer – sobriety on the horizon. All he can do for a moment is stare at her, wonder how it got to this.

“Goodnight Clarke,” he manages to say.

Bellamy finds the feeling in his feet, and turns around, trudging out of the room. He closes the door softly behind him, his mind racing, and the alcohol still ever-so prevalent on his lips. Collapsing against the door, he screws his eyes shut, prays that this isn’t a relapse. He slides down, his hand falling into his hands, and weeps softly. He’s okay, he needs to be okay. It’s been five and a half years, he’s sacrificed everything to be better.

He failed Clarke. He can’t fail his sobriety, too. Not this far along, not after all that he’s accomplished. Not when he’s the strong one, not when he’s supposed to be the one helping Clarke.

Breathing out slowly, Bellamy knows what he has to do. Healing is far from linear, and although he’s been sober for five and half years, he’s far from healed. Recovery isn’t just about not having a drink, it’s about rebuilding yourself. And he’d been neglecting that part of it, until he met Clarke. Until he found himself a reason to be a person.

He fishes his phone out of his back pocket and calls his sponsor.

* * *

He and Clarke are awake relatively early the next morning. Not much words are exchanged, he makes her breakfast, ensures she has plenty of water. And when he suggests they go by the lake, Clarke agrees with the most plastic smile he’s ever seen. They both know what’s coming, what this is.

And as they sink into the grass, Clarke curls up into his lap. It’s okay, now. She lays her head on his chest, breathing softly as he wraps his arms around her. The sun has just risen, peaking over the trees and glistening across the water. The waves are calm, almost still. Bellamy brushes his nose against the top of Clarke’s head, eyes watching over the water, the soft whistle of the trees blowing in the distance filling his ears.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke’s the first one to break the silence. She presses her cheek against his chest as she gazes up at him, tears filling her vision. “For kissing you when I was drunk. For even being drunk in the first place. My communication with my mom is scarce. I didn’t know she was coming into town last week, but she showed up at my door and I couldn’t say no.”

Bellamy nods, listening intently. He stays quiet, running his hand through Clarke’s hair. She looks up at him, never turns away to stare at the water or to follow the rustle of the leaves. He keeps his gaze just as intent on her. Not that it’s ever been difficult for him to do so. Being with her is the easiest part of his life.

“And she’s doing so well. Rubbing it in my face, even though she’d never admit it.” Clarke laughs bitterly, soon morphing into a smile sadly. “And I couldn’t hear about her new job or her stupid, new boyfriend. So I had a drink.” She inhales, exhaling shakily. “And it…opened something I thought I closed.”

“You’re going to get back on the right track,” Bellamy promises. “It’s going to take some time, but this stuff happens. It’s not to be taken lightly, but you can work towards being better.”

“I will be,” Clarke promises, sitting up straight in his arms. She peers at him, her sad smile recognizing reality. Her fingers come up, ghosting along his cheek. “It just…won’t be with you, will it?”

“I’ll always be here for you, Clarke,” Bellamy swears.

“But not as my sponsor.”

“No, but as a friend.”

“Just as a friend?”

Bellamy swallows thickly. God, all he wants is to be more than that. But he knows how this works. At the beginning of recovery, everyone has to focus on themselves and themselves only. There’s no room for anyone else to take up any room in their lives, not as such a crucial time in recovery. He’d done it with Gina, and his romantic feelings for her weren’t nearly as powerful as his are for Clarke.

He rests his forehead against hers, hand coming around to her cheek. His thumb brushing against her skin, her breath hits against his. “Remember when I said you were everything?”

Clarke’s crying now, soft whimpers with a forced smile. He holds her tighter, forehead digging into hers. She nods, hurriedly and through the tears that spill over her eyelids, travelling down her cheeks.

“You’re my everything,” Bellamy says softly. “And I’ll be here, for whatever you decide to do to help your sobriety.”

He doesn’t kiss her lips, instead bringing his mouth up to her forehead to plant a kiss on her forehead. His mouth lingers, taking in the part of her that he can have for now. When he pulls away, Clarke tucks herself into his chest, holds onto him for dear life. His arms tighten around her, chin balancing a top of her head as his gaze returns to the lake. The waves are blurry now, the tears clouding his eyes manipulating his vision.

* * *

Within the week, Bellamy’s driving her to the _Mount Weather Rehabilitation Facility_. Kane’s words ring in his ears, about their journey’s being different. So, when Clarke suggested she needed something more focused, a little stricter, Bellamy agreed to take her. And even now, as he stands before the facility with her, he knows it’s the best choice for her. Although, it does nothing to solve the hole in his heart that forms when she turns to him with that solemn look on his face.

“I think I need to do this on my own,” she says, voice breaking.

“I know,” Bellamy tightens his lips into smile. “I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready.”

Clarke steps forward, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. She nestles her head into his shoulder, and while she’s not crying, his shoulder is dampened by the tears that well up in her eyes. He doesn’t care, he holds her tighter, for what may be the last time in a long time. She squeezes him tightly, sucking out any air that’s left in him, before she releases him.

They don’t say anything. Just sad smiles and silent good luck’s, as Clarke turns her back to him. He watches her, waits for her. Her suitcase rolls behind her, and she never looks back, but his stare never departs from her. He watches as she rolls up the ramp to the front doors, waits as she enters the building. And when the door closes shut behind her, Clarke disappearing into the facility, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

For a while, Bellamy just stares. Watches the facility as if Clarke’s going to pop out within the next ten seconds, fully recovered and ready to go back to him. But he knows that’s not reality. And he can’t just stand here and wait for her, wait for his life to continue when she’s okay. He needs to be okay, too.

So, Bellamy takes one deep breath. He turns his back to _Mount Weather Rehabilitation Facility_ , climbs into his car. And he starts driving, to the place he has to start his own healing.

* * *

“I thought you’d slam the door in my face,” Bellamy chuckles nervously.

Octavia sits across from him, her stare blank and unwavering. He didn’t expect a warm welcome. In fact, he didn’t really expect a welcome at all. When he knocked, he was hoping to get his mother. She’s usually less than helpful, but he could have charmed his way inside. But Octavia was the one to open the door, and his whole body had stilled. If she hadn’t invited him in, he would have probably still been standing on that doorstep.

She’s a lot more mature than the last time he saw her; six years will do that to a person. He’s sure he looks more than different now, too. Her long, brown hair is chopped to her shoulders, dyed black like him and his mother’s. Her face is older, she has a lot more years on her, but he can tell she still has her young spirt. She’s still his sister.

“Should I have?” Octavia deadpans.

Bellamy lets out a low, shaky breath. He shakes his head, straightening and leaning forward. “I should have reached out sooner. When I was a year sober, or maybe two.”

“How long have you been sober for?” Octavia ponders. She’s trying to keep her voice even.

“Five and a half years,” Bellamy admits with a small smile.

Octavia’s lips tremble. “All this time, Bellamy. I thought you were dead somewhere–”

“I thought you and Mom didn’t want to see me anymore,” Bellamy confesses sheepishly. “At your graduation, you told me you didn’t owe me anything. And you didn’t then, and you don’t now. But you made it clear you didn’t want to see me.”

“I was a kid,” Octavia voice cracks. “A stupid kid. I didn’t know how to help you, and neither did Mom, so I thought–”

“I’m not blaming you, O. None of what happened to me is on you, or on Mom.” Bellamy reaches his hand across the table, laying it softly on top of hers. “I was sick, and I needed help. And I got it. I’m sober.”

“We should have been there,” Octavia cries, shaking her head. “I’ve let you miss out on so much. After all you did for me growing up. You raised me until Mom got her shit together. And she couldn’t even give you the same courtesy.”

Bellamy stands from his seat, walking around the table to envelop his sister in a hug. It’s been more than six years since he’s held his little sister, and feeling her hug him back is a relief that clears his chest, keeps his heart beating. She tucks herself into her big brother’s embrace, and Bellamy silently thanks Clarke. It was himself that got him here, but it was Clarke that started his healing. And one day, he’ll tell her just that.

“You’ve got to meet Gabriel,” Octavia mumbles to him. “You’re going to love him.”

“That is if I don’t kill him first,” Bellamy jokes.

Octavia draws back, swatting at his chest. “I mean it. He’s great, Bellamy. Really.”

“Well, I hope he’s better than that Atom guy I left you with.”

His sister bursts into a fit of laughter, one he’s missed so dearly. When his mom gets home from work, she’ll be another obstacle to maneuver. But right now, he has his sister back. And that’s a better start than anything he could have asked for.

* * *

Octavia’s wedding takes place at the beginning of the fall season. It’s beautiful and outdoors, which was a risk Octavia was hellbent on taking. But she got lucky, the multi-colored leaves decorating the trees that surround the arch, complimenting her flowy, floral laced dress. He sits in the front row, beside his mother and his date as his sister and her soon-to-be husband exchange their vows. He holds his mother hand, and feels at home when she kisses his cheek.

“I’m so glad you were able to be here, son,” Aurora gushes at the reception. She’d been introducing all the guests to her doting son throughout the night, as if the attention shouldn’t be on her daughter who just got married. “I wish I could take back all those years, Bellamy.”

Bellamy looks down at his mother, years wrinkling the corners of her eyes and creating laugh lines around her mouth. He has missed a substantial amount of years with his mother and his sister, something he dwelled on for the six years he was separated from them. It’s part of why he stayed away – his mistakes haunted him, and he had come to terms with their supposed hatred of him. Meanwhile, they’d been the ones yearning for his forgiveness.

He can’t rewind those years. But he can work towards being better now. His life is not just stinted in his recovery. He’ll always been in recovery, but his life will continue, and he will flourish. He will feel the happiness and relief he’d been depriving himself off for God knows how long, and he’ll rejoice in the life he found his way back to and in the one he rebuilt.

“I’m here now, Mom.” Bellamy promises. “And you’re not getting rid of me this time.”

“I hope not,” his mother nudges him. “Am I expecting you to walk down the isle next?”

Aurora tips her head up, motioning behind him. Bellamy glances over his shoulder to see his date approaching with two glasses of water in her hand. He smiles, wavering her over before returning his attention back to his mother.

“Mom, I told you, Gina is just a friend.” Bellamy hisses.

“Hi, Ms. Blake,” Gina greets her as she stands by Bellamy’s side. She hands Bellamy his glass of water, smiling warmly at Aurora. “Enjoying the reception?”

“It’s just lovely, isn’t it?” Aurora marvels. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. I’ve got to go pester my daughter for some grandbabies.”

Bellamy groans inwardly as Aurora winks at him, whisking away into the crowd of people in search for her daughter. He takes a sip of his water, the cool liquid slipping down his throat, comforting him. He turns to Gina, who looks after Aurora amused. Turning back to Bellamy, she clinks her glass with his, and takes a sip.

“I wish I could blame your mother for thinking we’re a couple,” Gina sighs, “Considering you did tell her I have a girlfriend?”

“Multiple times,” Bellamy huffs. “She even met Raven.”

Gina raises her eyebrows. “She did? When?”

“Raven called when Clarke got out. My mom happened to be there, thought _she_ was my girlfriend, too.”

He intends for Gina to laugh. But the mention of Clarke was sure to throw her off. He sighs deeply to silence her before she can say anything, bringing the water to his lips for another much needed sip. Settling the glass down on the table beside him, Gina’s still giving him a poignant look.

“You haven’t talked to her?” Gina inquires. “She’s been out for a month now.”

“She has to come to me when she’s ready,” Bellamy admits. “She knows I’ll be here.”

Gina nods slowly, “Well, I, for one, am glad you met Clarke. There’s no way you’d be at this wedding without her.”

Bellamy surveys over the reception. It’s a nice hall, with a lot of people that he doesn’t recognize. He’s assumed they’re mostly family and friends of Gabriel, but as his eyes drift to Octavia, he couldn’t care less. She hugs every guest, talks with the utmost enthusiasm to anyone who stops her, compliments the staff and prances around the dancefloor like she’s not wearing six inch heels. And when her husband comes up behind her, planting a kiss on her cheek and joining her on the dancefloor, she glows in a way he hasn’t seen in a long time.

He brings the glass of water to his lips, finishing it off with a big gulp. “I wouldn’t be a lot of places without Clarke.”

* * *

“As we close the night, is there anyone else who would like to speak?” Pike inquires, hovering over the podium, eyes scanning the room.

Bellamy already spoke this month, just before his sister’s wedding. Although now that he sits closer to the first row as opposed to the back, he’s a lot more noticeable. He averts his gaze, trying not to make any contact with Pike’s prying eyes. Luckily, Pike glances over him, eyes landing on someone on the back. Bellamy breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Clarke,” Pike calls on. Bellamy’s heart stops. “Come on up.”

His neck aches to swivel around, just to confirm that it’s hers. Clarke is a common name, it could be anyone – but he knows it’s her. He feels her in the click of her heels, even as his eyes cement on the podium before him. And when she finally comes into vision, his heart starts beating once more. This is the first time he’s seen her in nearly three months, and here she is, standing at the front of the podium.

She looks amazing. Granted, Bellamy can’t recall a time where Clarke didn’t look absolutely stunning. Her skin, still porcelain, is more nourished, her eyebags nearly diminished. Her blonde hair falls down to the mid of her back in her signature waves, the two front strands pulled and pinned back. And her blue eyes, bright and full of so much hope and willpower that Bellamy’s breath is caught in his throat.

It’s difficult to see, but he can tell by the way that she fidgets that her leg is bouncing. He can hear the click of her heel against the floor as her leg moves up and down. But when her eyes fall on him, the tension seeps from her shoulders and she relaxes into his gaze. He gives her a small smile, silently telling her that he knows she has this. She smiles back at him, after months of not seeing each other, just as easy as they always were with one another. And her leg stops bouncing.

“My name is Clarke Griffin,” Clarke speaks into the microphone. “And I’m a recovering alcoholic.”

The chorus of hello’s echo throughout the room, but Bellamy’s is the loudest. She glances back at him with a playful smile as a smirk dances across his own face. He’s so giddy, so proud at how far she’s come. She looks back to the crowd and takes a deep breath.

“I’m ninety nine days sober today,” Clarke announces. “Just over three months. I spent the last two in a rehabilitation facility that really guided me to the right path. I have a great support system, my sponsor is an amazing woman. But, it was hard to say the least. I was lonely, and I missed my friends and my freedom. But I managed.” She inhales, “But I don’t think I would have made it, if not for the months before I was admitted.”

Bellamy stares at her, captivated by everything that she is. Clarke turns back to look at him and he catches the twinkle in her eye. This time, she locks her gaze on him.

“Earlier this year, I was lost. Drinking every day, burying my mistakes in alcohol so I wouldn’t feel anything.” Clarke explains. “And then, I met someone who made me feel everything. Everything I’d spent years trying to hide behind alcohol. And I couldn’t believe I’d spent so long suppressing myself from feeling what that amazing person helped me uncover.”

She smiles, so small he can barely see it. But it’s in her eyes, in the promises they’ve never had to say, that they just know.

“Which isn’t to say it was always perfect. I stumbled along the way. I let myself down, which let him down.” Clarke exhales shakily. She turns back towards the crowd, “And for a while there, I stopped feeling again. Stopped caring who I hurt, as long as I didn’t feel anything. And that broke me more than my first three years of alcoholism did.”

Bellamy thinks back to that time; to having to let her go. It’s the most pain he felt in a while. But he rather feel all of it, in all of his glory, than to have her slip through his fingers again.

“I had to be better for me.” Clarke echoes his words. Her eyes train on him once again, and his breath is caught in his throat. “And so these three months, I make sure I was better for me. Before I could go back to him, and to everything he made me feel.”

* * *

Bellamy waits for her as the room empties. It takes a while for everyone to leave. A couple of people go up to Clarke, thank her for sharing her story. Pike is the last one to do so, clapping her on the back before exiting the room himself. Amidst the chairs and leftover refreshments, is just him and Clarke.

“Well?” Clarke prompts with a smirk. “What are you waiting for?”

He doesn’t want to wait anymore. He strides over to her, Clarke standing on that stage just waiting for him and pulls her into his arms. His mouth crashes against hers, in the warmth of her lips enveloping his. Her hands come up to cup his cheeks, her fingers lightly tracing the freckles that pattern his skin as he deepens the kiss.

Kissing Clarke this way, in the warmth and softness of her mouth, with his tongue seeping against hers, with his heart beating more furiously than it ever has been – it’s right. It’s months of waiting and sobriety and being okay that have lead them here, finally, that he’s now able to have her like this. And if he had to repeat these months over again, responsibility, pain, trial and tribulation and everything in between again, he’d do it. Just to have Clarke like this, right now.

“You look so good,” Bellamy breathes against her lips.

“You do, too,” Clarke fists her hands into his shirt. “I missed you so much.”

“God, I missed you, more.” Bellamy brings his hand to her cheek, lightly kissing her nose.

“I meant everything I said up there, you know. But there’s stuff I still want to say to you, only to you.”

Bellamy nods, speechless and out breath. He’s all the more intent on holding her, but hearing her speak is a privilege that he’s missed so dearly.

“I hadn’t felt anything for anyone in so long. Not for my mom or my friends or the people I’d been with in the past. You allowed me to _feel_ to be a _person_. To think for myself without the alcohol guiding me. You helped me recognize the past for what it is, _the past_. And you, Bellamy, you’re my present, you’re my future.”

His heart sews together, repairing the cracks with just her spoken words. His hand snakes down to her arms, intertwining their fingers. Bellamy rests his forehead against hers, breathing in and out slowly, trying to bring some much needed air to his lungs. Clarke just gazes at him, it being her turn to wait this time. He could make her wait forever, lost in the blueness of her eyes, but it’s been long enough.

“I thought I was healed before you. I’d been sober for five years, hadn’t touched a drink. But I was a shell, going through the motions of life because hey, at least I wasn’t drunk,” Bellamy squeezes her hands. “But you made me whole. You gave me a purpose to life that I didn’t have before.”

He can feel tears burn his own eyes as he spots them in Clarke’s. She tucks herself further into him, their torsos brushing together. If he could have her closer, if that was humanely possible, he would.

“I love you, Clarke,” Bellamy breathes. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Bellamy,” Clarke cries. “I love you so much.”

Bellamy’s lips are on hers once more, arms wrapped around her, bodies pressed together. Everything is right here, in his arms and all around him in his life. He never thought he’d be complete, not when he already screwed up his life to this extent. But here he is, full in his sobriety and everything that life has to offer.

He brings her back to his apartment, whisking her into the bedroom and placing her gracefully on his mattress. He swears their lips have not detached, if not briefly in the Uber. Even then, they stole kisses when the driver wasn’t looking, like a couple of school kids. His heart is certainly soaring like one, and now having her here, under him on his bed, every part of him feels like it’s going to burst.

Clarke hoists her sweater over her head, revealing her white, lace bra. Bellamy groans at the sight, his lips trailing down from her neck to her collarbone, before planting a slew of kisses over the exposed parts of her breasts. She arches her back into his mouth, allowing him to slip his hand behind her and unhook her bra. Impatient now, Bellamy closes his fist around the front clasp of the bra and pulls it down, instantly hooking his mouth over her nipple.

“Bellamy,” Clarke moans, hand coming up to the back of his neck. “Fuck, Bellamy.”

He circles his tongue around her nipple, bringing up his hand to toy with her neglected breast. She feels so full in his palm, so perfect in his mouth. Her moans cheer him on as he dances patterns around her nipple. He steals a quick kiss from her swollen lips before turning his attention to the other breast, enveloping it in his mouth before she even has time to ride out her moan.

“All mine,” Bellamy growls against her skin. “Fuck, baby, I can’t believe I have you like this.”

“All yours,” Clarke echoes. She hooks her fingers in his hair, hoisting him up to crash her lips against his in a frenzied kiss. “You’ll always have me, baby. Always.”

Bellamy groans into her lips, unable to contain anything that he feels for her any longer. He keeps his mouth on her for a bit, enjoying the taste of her lips on his, but when she grinds down on his thigh, he knows he has to give her what she needs, what she deserves. He lets her grind against him for a bit while he detaches their lips, pulling his own shirt off of him. Clarke’s hand falls against his bare chest, travelling down to his torso and landing on the buckle of his belt.

“Ah, ah,” Bellamy catches her wrist. “Not yet, baby.”

Clarke pouts, and his heart feels like it’s going to burst. He steals another kiss, pressing his lips to her hard, before he hooks his fingers under her pants and pulls them down to her ankles. She shimmy’s them to the floor, along with her bra, and she’s left in just her matching panties. Bellamy travels down her body, planting himself in between her thighs and pressing a kiss to her covered clit.

He bites down gently, just to rile her up. Clarke whines, arching her body up to meet his mouth. Bellamy chuckles darkly, planting one hand on her hip to pin her down to his bed. “I’m going to take care of you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Clarke dampens at his voice, and he decides not to deprive her any longer. Bellamy rids of her panties, discarding them somewhere on the floor. His hands marvel over her exposed pussy, basking in the glory of her. He moans to himself just at the sight before he offers one, welcoming lick to her center. Clarke instantly jerks her hips up to meet his mouth.

Bellamy devours her with his mouth, licking up and between her folds. His fingers pay attention to her clit for now, circling rapidly while his tongue explores every inch of her. She moans and writhes beneath him, but Bellamy shows her no mercy. His tongue continues to dive into every inch of her, as he brings his free hand up to hers. He entangles their fingers, and she holds onto his hand for dear life. He squeezes back, silently tells her he’s here, that he always will be.

“I-I’m almost there,” Clarke stammers.

“Yeah?” Bellamy urges her, tongue still pressed to her center. “Almost there for me?”

Clarke hums in agreeance. Bellamy smirks into her cunt, licking feverishly, his fingers quickening their pace around her clit. She yelps, arching into him and squeezing his hand. He switches techniques, using his tongue to flick rapidly at her clit, his free hand coming down to sink two fingers into her.

“Fuck, right there,” Clarke cries. “Fuck, Bellamy.”

“You like that, baby?” Bellamy teases.

“I love it, fuck, _I love you_.”

Bellamy aches to finish her right there. Her nails dig into his knuckles as he gets her to the edge. She groans out, his climax washing over her and coming against his mouth. He rids her through her orgasm, keeping his fingers at a steady pace inside of her, his tongue gently circling her swollen clit. Her knees come up over his shoulders, just to hold him there for a moment.

When her legs fall back against the mattress, she’s shaking. Bellamy’s licks up her stomach, leaving a trail of her behind before he gets to her lips. Kissing her is a safe haven, a grounding point. She presses her lips against his, returning his passionate kiss. Her hands come up, wrapping around his neck and holding him close.

“I love you,” Bellamy whispers back.

“I need you inside me,” Clarke whimpers. “Please, baby. I’ve waited so long.”

“Waited for this?” Bellamy taunts. “Waited for me to fuck you hard, to tell you how much I fucking love you? You know how long I waited for this?”

“We don’t have to wait anymore. It’s just you and me.”

“You and me, baby.”

Bellamy reaches his hand between them, his mouth returning to hers as he steadies his cock against her entrance. He’s hard and pulsating, but the minute he sinks into her, everything feels complete. The warmth of her invites him, and as she adjusts to the stretch, her runs his hand through her hair, calming her, soothing her. She moans into his lips, and he slowly pulls in and out of her.

“You feel so fucking good,” Bellamy breathes against her lips. “So tight, so perfect for me.”

“I’m so full, baby,” Clarke cries. “You’re everything, baby. You’re my everything.”

Pressing his lips hard against hers, Bellamy quickens his pace. His heart is beating a million miles a minute, if not for this, for everything he feels for her pouring out of him all at once. Her legs come up around his torso, holding him tighter to her. He pounds in and out of her, his lips never leaving hers, feeling her tighten around his cock.

He reaches his hand down between them, circling her clit as she approaches climax. He needs to feel her. She yelps, her breath hitching as she comes for the second time that night, this time over his cock. Her walls clench around him, cunt pulsating around his cock as she comes. He lets himself go inside of her, hot ropes of cum shooting out and filling her, just like she deserves, just like they’ve both been waiting for her.

Bellamy collapses on the bed beside her, and Clarke instantly rolls over to tuck herself into his chest. He wraps his arms around her, their sweat matted bodies gliding against one another. She presses a kiss to his chest, and he holds her tighter.

“I love you, Bellamy,” Clarke presses her cheek against his chest, and gazes up at him.

“I love you,” Bellamy smiles softly, planting a kiss on her nose. “You’re everything, baby.”

* * *

The Lifetime movie that plays on the screen is so terrible that neither of them are watching it. Bellamy’s finally got around to the dishes, drying them as Clarke sits perched on his couch. Every once in a while, he glances over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of what she’s up to. She’s covered his coffee table in newspaper to protect it, her canvas smack dab in the middle. He has full trust she’s not going to make a mess, but he’s curious about what she’s painting.

Clarke ran out of the supplies he purchased for her a while back, but she seemed to like the ones he picked out. This time, she just picked different colors. Blues, and purples – he thinks he got yellows and pinks last time. It doesn’t matter, she can make beauty out of pretty much anything. He finishes with the last dish, placing it back in the cupboard as he comes up behind her.

Bellamy nuzzles his head in between the juncture of her shoulder and neck, planting a slew of kisses. She giggles, leaning into his touch for a moment before she draws back, swatting him away with the paint-fused brush in her hand. He jerks back, earning another bout of laughter from her. Grinning, Bellamy takes a seat beside her, glancing at her work.

He can make out an alleyway, sandwiching a purple tinted dumpster near the end of the perspective way. Hanging above the building is a crescent moon. But what catches his eye is the black silhouette of an individual crouched by the dumpster. He recognizes the sight immediately, Clarke had told him she’d be drawing this. She tenses the longer he gazes at it, so he lifts his head, planting a kiss at her temple.

“This looks amazing, baby,” Bellamy praises. “When are you submitting it?”

“The applications for art school close on the tenth of January,” Clarke sighs deeply. “It should be ready by then.”

“It looks ready now.”

“Well, what do you know, you’re no artist.”

Bellamy chuckles, glancing at Clarke with such admiration that his heart sings. “No, but I know you’re talented. They’d be stupid to not accept you.”

Clarke brings her hand up to cup his cheek, bringing her mouth to his. With her mouth still against his, “Well, we’re all moving up, aren’t we? What about you, huh? Kane made you leader of the youth center?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes playfully, pecking her lips for reassurance. “I’m leading the recovering alcoholic youth group. Not the whole center.”

“I’m sure you’ll have it taken over in no time.”

Clarke deepens her mouth against hers, and any worries he may have had about the topic melt away. She drops her brush on the newspaper as Bellamy brings his hand up to kiss her back with the same passion.

A year ago, Bellamy couldn’t picture his life like this. He couldn’t imagine being back in his family’s good graces, couldn’t fathom the idea that he’d been healed in more ways than just his sobriety, couldn’t leave his crappy, old job, couldn’t even think that he’d have someone as amazing as Clarke as his partner. And now here he sits with Clarke, six years sober and welcoming all the possibilities that life has to offer him, now that he’s rebuilt his own.

“Hm,” Clarke murmurs against his lips. “We’re going to miss the countdown.”

She pulls away from his lips, grabbing the remote from the couch and finally putting them out of their misery with this Lifetime movie. The channel flickers to a countdown Bellamy doesn’t recognize, just as the clock begins counting down from thirty.

“Bellamy,” Clarke turns her gaze back to him. “You’ve made this year the best one of my life. And I know, it’s been difficult. But you made everything worthwhile.”

Bellamy stares down at her, a fond smile on his face. “You made me everything I am. I may have been your sponsor, but you healed me in ways I didn’t think was possible. I love you”

“I love you,” Clarke grins. “And hey, you haven’t been my sponsor for like, six months. That’s half the year.”

“Oh, shut up. I made the year worthwhile.”

Clarke laughs, so melodic and fond to his ears, just as the countdown strikes ten. Last year, he was ringing in the New Year alone at a bar, and now he’s here with the love of his life. And as he gazes at her, he can’t think of anywhere else he belongs more.

_Three, Two, One…_

Bellamy crashes his lips against Clarke’s, welcoming his six years of sobriety and the New Year.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter! @virgohotspot :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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